


Into The Mystic

by glinda4thegood



Category: Lone Gunmen
Genre: 70s nostalgia, F/M, Romance, Sci-Fi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-18
Updated: 2011-03-18
Packaged: 2017-10-17 02:22:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 35,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glinda4thegood/pseuds/glinda4thegood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Publishers of <i>The Lone Gunman</i> hire an advertising rep who brings $$$ to their pockets, a Consensual Reality Device puzzle for them to solve, and a chance for Frohike to get laid. Post <i>Eine Kleine Frohike</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Considering the mystic

LONE GUNMEN HQ - MONDAY MORNING

On his fiftieth birthday, Melvin Frohike realized that he was going to be one of those old men who only needed to sleep a few hours out of every twenty-four. This didn’t bother him, much. After all, what was the point of trying to sleep the eight-hour norm if you had to get up and pee every few hours?

He had always been a night owl, and enjoyed the society of other night owls, denizens in a world that nine-to-fivers seldom knew existed. Oddly, for a night owl, Frohike also loved humanity’s early morning shift, people who had to rise in the small hours to get to invisible jobs. There were interesting people who served coffee in diners, who baked the day world’s doughnuts and breads. Frohike had still been a young man when he identified a pronounced aversion to power-suited Cordovan-blucher and high-heeled shod human sharks. These preferences dictated that the perfect time for sleeping was undoubtedly 10 a.m. until 3 p.m.

Since Byers’ long-term health seemed to depend on a regular schedule of hitting the hay at 12:30 a.m. and rising for a quick shower and shave at 6:30 a.m., and Langly could be counted on to keep him company until 2, or sometimes 3 a.m. in the morning (if no heavy gaming tourneys were in progress), then sleep until noon the next day, it was usual for Frohike to have the late late hours of the night all to himself.

Frohike liked the schedule, when it worked. It meant that, unless they were all out chasing a story, there was usually someone awake to keep an eye on things in the office. In an unpredictable world the three of them had managed to orchestrate a precarious, but harmonious, routine.

Now their three-of-a-kind hand was threatened by the addition of a wild card, a joker with the unlikely name of Jimmy Bond.

Frohike glanced over his shoulder as something creaked across the room. The clock on his computer said 3:30 a.m. Jimmy’s abrupt visits could occur at any hour of the day or night. Frohike was unsure if the big, hyper goofus had _any_ routine in his life.

Although he knew that Byers and Langly were in bed, and he was the only other person in the apartment, Frohike pushed himself away from the computer, stretched and began a perimeter patrol. Ever since they’d discovered that Yves had gimmicked herself into their space (and that Jimmy had known long before they reviewed the monitor tapes, and forgotten to mention it) paranoia had ruled at Lone Gunman headquarters.

The surveillance screen showed an empty hallway. Water dripped in the darkroom sink, as usual, and the creaking sounds were a result of the natural old-age of the building that settled above them like an overweight broody hen. Away from the soothing drone of computer equipment, Frohike heard faint noises escape from Langly’s room. Sinus problems there, Frohike thought, taking odd comfort from the familiar chainsaw snoring.

They’d been arguing over what to do about the door locks just before Byers yawned and said his polite good-nights slightly after midnight. Langly was insisting they install a couple of iron bars on the inside of the front door, and build a secret escape passage to use when they had to leave the place unattended. The stud-finder sat in front of Langly’s computer, where he’d thrown it in disgust. After spending most of the evening investigating the outer walls of their space, he had been unable to find a spot both he and Byers could agree might have the potential for this project.

Frohike had refrained from pointing out the stupidity of the stud-finder. Most of their walls were concrete block. He’d also stayed out of the argument. Not that he wasn’t worried about Yves. It seemed not to have occurred to the other two that even if they _could_ build a secret escape door, Yves could, and would, find it.

They had plenty of other, more solvable, problems to worry about. Like the lack of a good lead story for their next edition.

Black coffee sounded tempting, Frohike thought as he went back to his computer. They were out of makings, though. Byers needed to go grocery shopping, but money had been tight, and they were all reluctant to mention it for fear Jimmy would start to shower them with groceries. It was bad enough they had to take his money to pay for printing and distribution costs. Frohike had the nagging worry that one day the boy would turn up with plastic bags full of yuppie-label beer, quilted toilet tissue and boxes of _Lean Cuisine_.

On impulse, Frohike surfed over to the USANA site to check out the latest information on a series of FOI court cases. They’d never had the money to pay dues, but Frohike didn’t see any philosophic problem with joining the United States of America Newspaper Association. They did some good stuff for real journalists.

Reading through the headline menu, a number caught his eye.

“ _Spending in newspaper advertising hits $48.7 billion in 2000_.”

Jeez. A little of that would have been good. According to the last pie-chart Byers had created from his bookkeeping program, they’d had a four-figure income last year.

Frohike clicked on the headline and scanned the story. Classified advertising alone was over $19 billion, the story claimed.

Election year bonanza, Frohike thought with disgust. Even if they’d agreed to take the money, no one had come to them offering sticky political dollars.

Few advertisers seemed interested in them at all.

To be fair, Frohike admitted to himself, they hadn’t pursued advertising dollars aggressively. There were too many potential conflicts of their interest with the interests of businesses that might appear in their headlines. Manpower was another problem. Their time was already maxed.

Still. $48 billion dollars could trickle down and feed a lot of budding, and gnarled, journalists.

The headline hovered in the back of his mind as Frohike moved from Freedom of Information cases, to mad cow disease, to hoof and mouth virus, to genetically altered corn and hormone-bloated chickens. By 5:00 a.m. he had a couple of ideas for a lead story, and the queasy conviction he might have to become a strict organic vegetarian.


	2. Chapter 2

**LATE MONDAY AFTERNOON**

“The connection is too tenuous,” Byers argued. “We’d need hard proof, and that will take time.”

“Have you come up with anything? You were supposed to be tracking states that are getting ready to try and make DNA sampling at birth mandatory.” Frohike’s stomach complained about the toast and jam he’d had after getting out of bed. He really wanted a cheeseburger, but the image of staggering cows was still putting him off.

“That’s so lame.” Langly had been glued to his computer for the last week, recreating his game’s virtual moment of crowning glory. He’d forgiven Frohike for killing the power to the shredder, and his computer, which had resulted in the game's destruction. The revised game included an expanded coronation scenario with a slightly indecent many-maids-a-waiting enrobing ceremony. “I like Frohike’s story. Government and big food companies feeding us hormones to keep a good pool of basketball players coming. The sports industry is nearly as powerful as the tobacco industry. Actually the tobacco industry has been buying up the big food suppliers for some time, so there might even be a link there.”

“I’m not saying it’s not a good story. We just haven’t done the work, yet.” Byers shook his head. “We’ll run Frohike’s follow-up piece on the War Criminal Hunters and their most-wanted list.”

“Not very sexy.” Langly flipped his hair back over one shoulder.

“But solid.” Byers frowned. “We’re in a bind, and Frohike did the work. The DNA story will be ready by the next issue.”

“I hope so. It just makes my blood boil when I think of all those babies who might have their futures ruined. At least with the chicken thing, they can grow up to be good American hoopers. But to be forced into the DNR? That’s like the sneakiest branch of law enforcement there is. Those guys make the CIA look like 45-year-old Sunday afternoon men’s league dabblers.” Jimmy Bond eased around the workbench and peered over Langly’s shoulder. “Whatcha doing?”

“Byers.” Langly’s voice carried a strident demand.

“Jimmy --” Byers began. He broke off as the office phone rang.

“I’ll get it!” Jimmy bounced across the room. “Office of the Lone Gunman, your complete conspiracy news source! Jimmy Bond speaking.”

Frohike felt his eyeballs roll in their sockets. The kid was way too juiced.

“That would be so cool.” Jimmy waggled his eyebrows at them. “I just don’t know. Let me ask.” Jimmy placed his hand over the receiver. “How much do we charge for a full page ad, guys?”

“I’ll take that.” Frohike elbowed Byers and Jimmy aside. “Hello? This is Melvin Frohike.”

“Hello Mr. Frohike. This is Edwina Norton. I own the Acme Ad Agency. Are you the advertising manager?”

The woman’s voice sounded weary, Frohike thought. “We’re a small business, Ms. Norton. Today I’m wearing the ad manager’s hat.” Frohike heard Langly make a rude snicker, and flipped a finger in his direction. “Our receptionist said you were interested in a full page ad?”

“I’ve got a client, a friend really,” the woman said. “I’m familiar with your publication. It seemed like the perfect vehicle for what she needs. I’ve got your mechanical dimensions, but not your rates.”

“A camera-ready, full-page ad?” Cha-ching! Frohike took a deep breath. “Five hundred would do it.”

“Yes!” Across the room, Jimmy was trying to high-five Byers.

“Fine. I’ll e-mail the ad. As for payment --”

Frohike could hear a rustling noise on the other end of the line. “Cash would be better, but we’ll take a check. Our mailing address is on the masthead. Do you have it?”

“I do.” For the first time the weariness in the woman’s voice disappeared. She chuckled, an earthy little sound that gave Frohike a twinge of interest. “We don’t mind paying in cash, but I’ll need to get a receipt. I could bring it to your office. There’s no physical address listed here?”

Another reason they hadn’t pursued advertisers. A steady stream of strangers coming to their door would expose them to additional risks. _Crisp greens_ , Frohike told himself. _It’s only one dame. What could it hurt?_

Turning his back on his friends, Frohike quietly gave Edwina Norton their address.

 

 **TUESDAY MORNING, 8 A.M.**

“If it’s an April Fool’s joke, we still get $500 bucks, so I’ll laugh all the way to the sock under your bed, Byers.”

The air was warm and heavy with the perfumed oils of fresh coffee grounds, cayenne pepper and the nose-biting tomato sharpness of Rowdy Dragon hot sauce. Anticipation of a cash influx had sent them out on a quick shopping trip to replenish Ma Hubbard’s cupboard. Remembering all the times he’d condemned Yves’ pursuit of filthy lucre, Frohike acknowledged that the ability to pay for the basic necessities of life was a comfort he shouldn’t take for granted.

Byers finished a last bite of scrambled egg covered with hot sauce, drained his coffee cup and blotted his lips with a napkin. “Thanks, Frohike. Great eggs. You really think she’ll show up with the money?”

“I checked out her agency. It’s legit. They’ve been DBA for 15 years.” Frohike poured himself another cup of coffee. “I admit the ad’s almost too over the top, like something Mulder’d --” Frohike stopped abruptly and swallowed hard.

“I know,” Byers said quietly. “Let’s go print it out. I only skim read it on the screen. Leave the dishes. I’ll clean after Langly gets up.”

It was definitely an ad Mulder would have appreciated.

“ _Bill. Come home_ ,” Byers read the 150 point headline aloud. “Do we have any subscribers named Bill or William?”

“Seven,” Frohike said. “Don’t think this is aimed at a subscriber, though that’s just my impression.”

“ _All is forgiven_ ,” Byers continued reading the more modest 24 point type. “ _Your family understands about exposure to the depleted uranium shells and the abductions. We don’t blame you, and since the living room was repainted everyone’s been letting go over the solstice thing. The children have new pets -- fish this time. Your mother was released from that home she was in, and is living in the basement. She asks for you every day when I put food through the trap. I’ve just learned I’m pregnant. If you think back to the last time we had marital relations, you’ll understand why this condition is causing me some concern. I’m going to need your support. The Visa bills have been coming in, so I know they dropped you back in the area. We miss you and need you, and since Uncle James died last month he won’t be bothering you about the transplant. Please come home, and bring the shoes. Your loving family._ ”

“Run it in the back, just before the classifieds?” Frohike said, finally.

“As long as we get paid first.” Byers shook his head. “It’s one of the things I’ve missed most about Mulder’s absence -- being constantly reminded that, compared to what some people face every day, our problems are piddly, almost boring.”

The blare of the door alarm shattered the uncomfortable silence between them.

“It’s probably Jimmy. I’ll get it,” Frohike said. He still wasn’t ready to talk about Mulder, even with the guys. “I wrote a column last night. Proof it for me.”

“Will do.”

Frohike had expected to find Jimmy fidgeting in the hallway, like a big dog eager to run out and pee on all the hydrants in the city. The little woman with the oversized shoulder bag, flyaway curls and wire-rim glasses was, therefore, a pleasant surprise.

“Ms. Norton?” Frohike opened the door wide.

“Please, I’m Ed. You’re Mr. Frohike?”

“M-melvin.” Frohike wiped his hands down the front of his jeans, hoping his fingers weren’t still greasy from breakfast. He held out his hand and she took it. Her fingers pressed against his in a quick, firm handshake.

“Interesting place you’ve got here. Is that old guy in the alley yours? I think my Cherry’s in love.”

“Excuse me?” _Did she just say what I thought she said?_ Frohike wondered. Standing eye to eye with him (and they were an odd color, not quite blue and not quite green, Frohike thought disjointedly), with those retro wire-rim glasses and curling mass of hair that looked to be the color and texture of pink cotton candy, wearing a moss-colored smock and matching velveteen cossack trousers tucked into knee-high boots of seasoned brown leather, she roused the ghostly image of someone from an old album cover.

“The VW bus. Is it yours?”

“Yes.” Frohike forced his mind out of retrospective mode. Thankfully Byers was coming to join them, his eyes wide and wondering as he stared at the pink hair.

 _It’s better than Christmas,_ Frohike thought. _Mrs. Claus bringing cash to all the good boys. Lucky Santa. Who knew Mrs. Claus was built like a brick . . ._

“Hello. I’m John Byers. You must be Ms. Norton.”

“Ed to my friends.” She repeated the handshake with Byers, but Frohike thought she held his hand a little longer then she’d held his. “I love old VWs. I’ve got a ’72 Super Beetle, Cherry Red. You don’t see many of the buses around any more.”

“No, you don’t. Would you like a cup of coffee, Ed?”

Byers was absolutely exuding friendly welcome, Frohike thought, frowning.

“Thank you, I would.”

“We won’t keep you from proofreading. I’ll take care of business, Byers.” Frohike touched Ed’s arm and steered her toward the kitchen table. No rings on her fingers, he noticed. No lines, either, to show she might have worn one.

He pulled out a chair, then hustled the pile of dishes out of sight. “Cream? Sugar?”

“Black is good.”

How old was she? Frohike wondered as he poured the coffee. Women did such crazy things to their hair. Skin was usually the big telltale. Ed had fine wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, but the line of her chin and throat was smooth and tight. Thirty and counting? A finely cared-for forty plus? The belted smock emphasized the fact that if she was carrying any significant extra weight it sat high and proud, well above her waistline.

“We got the ad. No problem.”

“Thank you.” She took the coffee and smiled up at him.

Frohike felt something twang near his left lung, and something melt near his navel.

“How weird did you think it was?” Ed laughed. “I don’t want to sound patronizing, but when I read it I immediately thought of your paper.”

“Good call. And it’s not the weirdest thing I’ve ever read. You said -- a friend of yours?” Frohike watched her sip the coffee. She had a small dimple next to her lips, like a fleeting beauty mark that appeared when she smiled.

“Yes,” Ed said slowly, as if debating whether to follow the short answer with a longer one. She reached into her handbag and pulled out an envelope. “Meg would like a receipt.”

“No problemo. I’ll go print one off for you.” Frohike took the envelope and tucked it into his vest pocket. “Help yourself if you want more coffee.”

Byers was standing at the light-table near the printer, tapping a photo-blue pen against his chin as he read. “So,” he said as Frohike sat down at the computer and began typing, “she seems nice.”

“Yeah.” Frohike diverted his attention from the screen to glare at Byers for a second.

Byers smiled as he looked past Frohike toward the kitchen. “Langly seems to think so, too.”

In the background, Frohike could hear Langly’s voice and Ed’s laugh. He half rose from his seat, in time to see Langly lean over and touch Ed’s hair. She was laughing. Her own fingers reached up to weave through a dangling strand of Langly’s long blond hair.

Frohike snatched the receipt out of the printer before the tractor tires had completely let go. He ignored Byers’ laugh as he hurried back toward the kitchen.

“This is your whole staff?” Ed asked as Frohike handed her the receipt. “Three of you?”

“We’ve got another guy now. Part-timer,” Langly said, rummaging in the refrigerator. “Kind of an EOE concession.” He found the orange juice carton, shook it, then tipped it to his mouth.

“We’re a small, specialized organization,” Frohike said. Later he would make Langly eat the OJ carton, right now he just wanted to get rid of him so he could think of a way to ask Ed if she’d like to get a drink, or dinner, or maybe climb into a jacuzzi.

Ed finished her coffee. “It was a pleasure meeting you all.”

“I’ll walk you out.” Frohike pulled her chair away as she stood, earning a rude snicker from Langly for his chivalry. “I’d like to see your VW.”

“That ain’t all he’d like to see,” Langly said as he passed, just loud enough for Frohike to hear.

Langly had been crankier and more sarcastic than usual, Frohike thought as he followed Ed up the stairs. He blamed it on Jimmy. They were all finding unsuspected nerve endings thanks to Jimmy’s unique ebullient density.  
“You should give serious thought to some restoration work done before he gets any worse,” Ed said as they entered the alley. “I don’t mean to be pushy. I have this weird sense of family with VWs. I get evangelistic about them.”

Frohike whistled. The gleaming red Super Beetle parked behind their van seemed wink at him. “Shit. It’s a Love Bug!” he said, before he could stop himself.

“My Cherry’s a great girl,” Ed said. “I also anthropomorphize machinery. To a lot of people, that makes me a crazy old lady.”

“I can’t vouch for the crazy, but I know the _old_ part is way off,” Frohike said, sucking in his stomach and thinking furiously. What would be the best way --?

“A lot of people don’t look beyond the packaging,” Ed said, running her hand along the chrome of a headlight. “Would you be interested in getting a cup of coffee, or a drink, sometime?”

“Well. Yeah. Okay.” Frohike’s stomach fell back into its normal position before he could stop it. “That would be cool.”

Ed fished in her handbag and pulled out a business card. “Hang onto this. It’s got my work, home, phone numbers, e-mail, Why don’t I pick you up tonight at 7? We can get dinner, too.”

“Cool.”

 

“Cool. That would be cool. Dammit. Could I be more suave?” Frohike muttered as he walked back to the office, feeling as if his whole body had contorted into a wince. “I am so out of practice it’s pathetic.”

“Get a date?” Langly yelled as Frohike locked the door. “I think Scully’s pregnancy has left him a broken man, Byers. He’s been reduced to sucking up to old ladies.”

“When’s the last time _you_ had a date, freak?” Frohike demanded. “At least I’m relating to women. I don’t spend all my time in dark corners with boys named Kimmy.”

“Guys,” Byers started.

The door buzzed. Frohike kept walking. “That’ll be Jimmy. I’m going to grab a nap. If you get the layouts done, Byers, I’ll look them over when I get up.”

It was blessedly quiet in his bedroom. Frohike automatically reached for his lava lamp and thumbed the on-switch. A low hum started, and the soothing green light and blue blobs of ‘lava’ began their hypnotic dance. The bed squeaked when he sat down to pull off his boots. Frohike could almost remember what it sounded like in full orchestration with the happy squeals of a woman singing soprano to his bass enjoyment.

He wasn’t a kid any more, but damn, it had been way too long.

Frohike pulled the basket out from under his bed and dropped everything except his vest, gloves and boxers onto the small pile of socks that had been waiting to be laundered for over a week. When he woke up he’d shower, and put on clean stuff. Maybe that dark green shirt that Scully used to look at as if she liked it.

Scully, his hot little Scully.

Would he ever feel good about those two again, Frohike wondered as he molded his pillow into a suitable shape. Mulder and Scully were synonyms for loss and sadness lately. As much as he wanted to celebrate Scully’s impending motherhood, there was something overwhelmingly dark in her face that rocked him to his soul.

Frohike shut his eyes and tried to let the hum from the lamp zone him out. Who was going to childbirth classes with her, he wondered. Why did those two only ask for technical help? Hadn’t Scully _ever_ looked for a cuddle or shoulder to cry on? The thought that Mulder and Scully both may have been damaged beyond repair was almost too much to bear.

He’d missed Scully more than the guys knew. With her, the game had been the thing. The jokes and innuendos, the ogling, the simple appreciation of her unobtainable Scully-loveliness.

Frohike reached behind him and gave the pillow a vicious punch. Game over, he thought sadly.

Langly’s comment about old ladies had contained more truth than he could know. The whole humiliating masquerade as Dolph Haag had given Frohike an unexpected just-past-mid-life insight about his own neediness. He didn’t _need_ to be mothered, didn’t _need_ the aggressive care and concern of any woman. But he hadn’t found it burdensome; in fact he’d admitted to himself that as comfortable as he was living with the guys, there were times when he just wanted to be with a woman.

And not necessarily in bed, Frohike thought, yawning. Although that would be a definite bonus.

 _Climb, ooze, drop. Climb, ooze, drop._

The hum and the colored light quieted his mind. With a last fleeting imaginary construction of how Ed might look stretched out beside him on the bed, Frohike drifted off to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**ALLEY BEHIND LGHQ, 7 P.M.**

She was right on time.

Frohike glanced at his watch as he heard the signature rubberband-powered-motor sound of the VW before it turned into the alley. With a minute to spare Ed pulled up behind the van, waving at him.

Punctuality was a good thing in a woman, Frohike thought absently as Ed opened the door and swung out a long, slender, mostly bare leg. The rest of her followed. Frohike heard himself make an unattractive gulping sound as he swallowed.

She wore a bronze velvet shift, sort of a flapper look, he thought, eyeing the slitted sides that opened up a clear line of leg to just above mid-thigh when she walked. The color should have been outrageous with her pink hair, but seemed to work. Frohike had only the most nebulous idea of what passed for fashion these days, once you moved away from basic black leather.

“You look great,” she said with a huge smile. “I hope you don’t mind, I dressed up instead of down. It cheers me up.”

“It cheers me up, too.” That had been better, Frohike thought, then _cool._ Maybe he’d get through the evening without making a total ass of himself.

“Would you like to drive?”

She wanted him to say yes, Frohike realized. He had no objection. “Okay. Where are we going?”

“You know Gregori’s?”

“Sure.” Good pick. The food was great, prices were moderate, and the place had ambience up the kazoo.

“Take the long way there. I feel like going for a drive.” Ed walked around and got into the passenger’s seat.

Frohike slid in behind the wheel. Oooh. Leather-wrapped wheel, and the vinyl smelled faintly of sweet citrus cleaner. He adjusted the rearview mirror. The glass was so clean it was practically invisible. The seats still had spring. Stretching his legs Frohike realized he didn’t even have to make an adjustment to reach the pedals. Their legs must be the same length, he thought, trying to ignore a sudden warmth around his upper thighs.

“You really keep her up.” Frohike turned the key, and the motor caught and rumbled behind them. “She sounds good.”

Even without his gloves on, the gears moved in and out under his hands with silky ease. For the first time he started to consider Ed’s words about restoring the van. Compared to Cherry, shifting the van was like trying to change an old duffer’s dentures on the fly.

“Can you bear to listen to Sarah Vaughn?” Ed asked, fingers hovering about the controls of a CD player that fit seamlessly into the radio slot.

“Not a burden,” Frohike said. Nice of her to ask, not many women _or_ men bothered. God. She smelled wonderful. Not like perfume, he thought, some kind of soap. Fresh. Spicy. Tasty.

It was going to be a long night.

He drove her through a residential area, and around the park near Gregori’s. They didn’t talk, just listened to the jazz and looked at the neighborhood. When they parked next to Gregori’s, she opened her own door, but came around and offered him her arm.

Her arm was warm, and Frohike could feel taut muscle under the smooth skin. As they walked her shoulder and hip nudged against him. Frohike imagined the soft spots that had developed in his midsection the first time he saw Ed were emulating his lava lamp, and oozing weakness down toward his knees. It was a wonderful sensation, in spite of the fact it made walking difficult.

He managed to get into the restaurant without embarrassing himself. It looked like a quiet night. They got a table right away, an intimate booth in a corner.

“They’ve got these thin chewy, crispy, cheesy breadsticks,” Ed said.

“I’ve eaten here. They’re good,” Frohike agreed. He ordered a beer. Ed ordered wine. They sat and looked at each other after the waiter had gone.

“Tell me about the paper,” she said. “What’s your circulation? Where do you print?”

“We print about 3000,” Frohike said, inflating the last circulation figure by the usual acceptable percentage. He found himself talking through the breadsticks, through the salad and pasta. She was a good listener, and since she was in the business herself knew what questions to ask, and when to laugh. It was heady. He didn’t start feeling like he’d talked too much until their coffee came after the dishes had been cleared away.

“Hey, sorry. I’ve been talking your ear off.” The light made a fuzzy spot around her hair, casting a rosy haze over their table. In spite of the haze Frohike experienced a moment of super-sharp observation, an almost out-of-body experience. The evening had been perfect, Ed was great company, and Frohike’s newest and most compelling ambition in life was to get Ed out of her clothes. As the epiphany faded, a pall of gloom displaced his euphoria. What were his chances?

“Why’d you ask me out?”

“There was a spark,” she said. “That was one reason.”

“There’s another?” For the first time since he’d met her, Edwina Norton looked awkward and ill-at-ease. Then she leaned forward and smiled, and the moment passed.

“I turned fifty this year, Melvin. My business celebrated its sixteenth, and final, anniversary. I lost two good employees this year to motherhood, another to a jail term for drug possession. Just the thought of interviewing for three replacements, the training, the failures before I find the right people . . .” Ed shook her head. “I’ve been successfully self-employed most of my life. I’ve made this decision to close my business. I could retire early, but what would I do? I’m not a lounger.”

“I don’t suppose you want to start a torrid affair with an investigative journalist?” Frohike asked diffidently.

“You’re so sweet.” Ed reached for his hand and touched his fingers. “But I don’t sleep with men I work with, at least, not right away. And it wouldn’t be fair to Sven.”

Wishing he’d had the foresight to order a shot with his coffee, Frohike examined the bombshell she’d just dropped from several angles. He took a breath. “We don’t work together,” he said. “Who’s Sven?”

“Sven lives with me. He’s studying to be an athletic trainer. Long story.” She picked up her coffee cup and looked at him over the rim. “Sven isn’t a permanent thing, Melvin. And if you offered me a job, I would work with you.”

Ed held up her hand as he opened his mouth. “You need me, Melvin. You’re badly underexposed.”

“I offered--”

“Shh. Let me work on commission. I’ll start by selling advertising for you. I’ve already got several contacts who are natural clients for the _Lone Gunman_.”

He couldn’t help himself, he had to ask. “Like who, Ed? You have more wacko friends who want to drop bucks advertising for missing family members?”

“Are you good at what you do, Melvin?”

She’d straightened and pulled back her shoulders. Frohike found he couldn’t take his eyes off what looked like molten hills of bronze-gold.

“Yeah. Good,” he managed. “Damn it, Ed. What exactly do you want from me? Because the signals are confusing.”

“Life is confusing,” she snapped. “I am attracted to you. It’s a definite bonus. But Melvin, I’m _very_ good at what I decide to do. And I’ve decided to sell advertising for you.” She held up five fingers and ticked them off as she spoke. “I could go out tomorrow and sell space to Mad Jack’s Computer Repair, the local chapter of the NRA, Red Wigglers, Daisy Hill Kennels, and a handful of security installation companies.” Ed waved her little fist at him. “And that’s only the tip of the iceberg, Melvin. As far as I can see, you haven’t even _tried_ to market your publication. Don’t you want to make money?”

“Money is good,” Frohike said cautiously. She seemed very enthusiastic. “I guess our mission has always been the primary focus. We aren’t doing this to make money, Ed.”

“No shit.”

Watching Ed finish her coffee in tight-lipped silence, Frohike considered how Byers and Langly might react to Ed’s suggestion. If it meant they could cut their dependence on Jimmy, he didn’t see how they could refuse to give her a try. He also wondered what kind of time frame ‘right away’ implied.

“I’ll talk to the guys, Ed. That’s all I can promise.”

“Good enough.” She touched his hand again. “Thank you, Melvin.”

He let her pay for dinner without a fuss, and drove the long way back to the office. Ed didn’t make a move to start a CD, but the quiet between them felt comfortable. She didn’t speak until they pulled into the alley.

Frohike turned the key and Cherry’s engine stuttered to a halt.

“All those stories you write. They’re true, aren’t they.” Ed looked at their bus, holding her hands folded loosely in her lap.

“Yes. And that brings up another problem with you working for us.” Frohike had thought about it on the way home. “What we do, sometimes it’s dangerous, Ed. Fatal dangerous.”

“I’m not a careless person, Melvin. The woman who gave me that ad to place. I’ve known her since we were kids. She used to be as normal -- as I am.” Ed laughed a little, then sobered. “I’ve worked in advertising most of my life, for god’s sake. Let me tell you, I know there’s evil, exploitative crap going on in the world. I can respect that you and your friends are trying to keep a voice alive. Let me help.”

“I said I’d talk to them.” Frohike opened his door and got out. It was dark in the alley, and ripe with the odors of gas and garbage and hot fry grease. He heard Ed’s door open. She came around to stand next to him, smelling of garlic and red wine, and underneath of clean, warm woman. He felt his heart jump into his throat.

“Thanks for your company, Melvin. Even if your friends won’t hire me, I’d like to see you again.”

“What about Sven?” he managed to ask.

“Nice boy,” Ed said. “He’s headed for L.A. in a couple of months. Can I kiss you good night?”

“I thought you were a smart dame.” Frohike’s instinctive step backward was blocked by Cherry’s fender. “You need to ask that question?”

She was maybe two inches taller than he was, Frohike thought as she put an arm around his neck and leaned against him. Carefully she removed his glasses and slipped them into one of his vest pockets. Frohike’s hands slid down the velvet, hesitated, then glided over her backside. Her lips were as soft as her ass in this dress, he thought vacantly as her tongue touched his bottom lip.

Time quivered, stopped.

It was the slowest, deepest kiss Melvin Frohike had ever participated in. Her deliberately moving mouth twanged every nerve connected to every vital portion of anatomy he had. The need to breath was jettisoned, the desire to crawl deep into Ed using any available entry point became the alpha and omega of existence. When her mouth disappeared, and his lungs shuddered into action again, Frohike felt like he’d been tobogganed over the edge of Hoover Dam.

“Damn.” Ed backed away, holding onto the door frame. “Melvin. Good kisser.”

“When I can walk again, you can drive off,” he said, dryly. “Would you mind very much if I sent some friends over to pick up Sven and ship him to California?”

“Call me tomorrow.” Ed got into the driver’s seat. “Either way, call me.”

 

Jimmy let him in.

“Man, Frohike, I wanted to meet her. Langly said you’d bring her back with you.”

“Langly is an idiot.” He’d taken his time getting down to the door, but the aftereffects of Ed’s kiss were still with him. “Is he here?”

“Nope. But Byers is working.”

Jimmy followed Frohike toward the computers. “Did you hurt your foot?”

“Yeah, yeah. I hurt my foot. You got any idea where the J&B is, Jimmy?”

“Well, sure. I found it when I was filing last week. What kind of an idiot would put J&B in a filing cabinet?” Jimmy rolled his eyes.

“Grab a couple of glasses and the bottle. I need a drink -- for the pain in my foot.”

“Frohike?” Byers looked up from the layouts of their next issue. “Are you okay?”

“We had a great time. I like her a lot. She has a boyfriend,” Frohike said rapidly, ignoring Jimmy when he slapped his forehead and moaned ‘oh, man!’ as he deposited the glasses and bottle near Frohike’s elbow. “I’d like to talk to Byers alone for a minute, Jimmy. Okay?”

“Sure. I get it. Friend support stuff.” Jimmy beamed at them. “I love the bond you guys have with each other. I’ll just go work on the filing.”

“Yeah. You do that.” Frohike poured the liquor into the glasses, shrugging as he saw the worry on Byers’ face. “Screw the bond we have,” he said, tipping his glass and taking a large swallow.

“Personally, I’d rather not.” Byers laughed as he took a small sip from the other glass. “What’s up, Frohike?”

“You don’t want to know.” Frohike refilled his glass and tilted his chair back against the work station. “Were you aware that nearly $49 billion was spent last year on newspaper advertising?”

Byers’ eyes widened. “That’s a lot of money.”

“Yes, it is.” Frohike nodded. “I’ve got an idea that will radically change the looks of your pie-charts, and put a halt to the drain on Jimmy’s life savings. Want to hear it?”


	4. Chapter 4

**MAD JACK'S COMPUTER REPAIR, THURSDAY 11 P.M.**

"Thazz a strange bit of . . . I'm not sure exactly what it is, boss."

Mad Jack Glamorgan looked up from his delicate soldering work and glanced at what his nephew, and sometime stockboy, was holding. "Where'd you get that?"

"It came in the stuff you bought at the last auction." The boy turned the black box end for end and poked what looked like jack ports. "Those storage spaces they were clearing out due to nonpayment."

"Give it to me." Mad Jack reached for the box, then quickly put it down. He rubbed his fingers together and stared at the thing. "What else came with this lot?"

"Shitload of wires and cables. Little cardboard boxes I haven't looked in yet. Empty, used file folders. Unlabeled CDs. I tried one in the boombox, but they must be for computers."

"Don't mess with any of it," Mad Jack said. "You going home now? Your ma will scream at me if you're not home before midnight."

The kid made a sloppy salute. "On my way."

"Lock up behind you!" Mad Jack waited until the boy was gone, then reluctantly touched the box again. He turned it over, like the kid had, but more carefully, studying each of the in-ports with a critical eye. It was as big as desktop CPU, but it was wrong, all wrong.

Centuries past Mad Jack's people had filtered through Europe, eventually ending up in the New World with their traditions diluted and their kin spread to all points of the compass. Mad Jack was aware that he had the blood of wandering sorcerers and magicians running in his veins. He'd always had a touch of luck, the ability to see to the heart of a business partner's intentions, the odd premonition to stay home from work, or take another path on a certain day. But in all his years he'd never experienced anything like the dread, and sensation of blackness, that he got when he touched the box.

It wasn't hard to find the cables his nephew had described. The kid had left the contents of their latest acquisition strewed all over one corner of the warehouse. Mad Jack didn't get the same bad feeling from the wires, but when his fingers grazed the top of one of the little cardboard boxes, his stomach started to churn. He forced himself to open one of the boxes.

Row on row of little beige pills. _Mary, Mother_ , Mad Jack thought. He'd bought a cubicle full of drugs, and some vile piece of devil machinery.

Carefully he replaced the lid on the box and cleaned everything away into the original packing crate. He found a hammer and nailed the lid shut. Returning to his workbench he sat and stared at the black box for a long time.

 

 **EDWINA NORTON’S BACKYARD, FRIDAY 8 A.M.**

Wiping the perspiration from her arms and neck, Edwina Norton cooled down after her morning run.

It was a strange morning. The sky had been clear when she woke up, but by the time she’d put on her running shoes and headed out the door the light had changed to an almost green-gray, and low clouds had completely blocked the sun.

The air had felt humid as she ran, and her ears had popped several times. Storm coming, Ed thought. It was close, but hadn’t quite worked itself up to cutting loose yet.

Inside the radio was playing something mindlessly cheerful, and Sven was in the middle of the living room floor doing stomach crunches. Ed stood in back of the couch and watched him, returning his happy grin as he saw her. He was such a nice boy, she thought. Incredible body.

He’d already started the coffee, she could smell the aroma coming from the kitchen.

Sven was the best roommate she’d ever had, Ed reflected as she went for coffee and OJ. She’d miss him when he left, but suspected he’d be one of the few who kept in touch. His reaction when she’d told him they wouldn’t be sleeping together any more had been flattering and touching. Sven liked her as much as she liked him, but their relationship had been temporary and they both knew it.

A low rumble of sound came from outside. Ed opened the kitchen window a hair. Had that been thunder, or a passing truck? The mix of fresh air and coffee smelled good, and she pulled a kitchen chair under the window and sat with her cup on the window ledge.

She’d been waiting for the last two days for the phone to ring. She didn’t quite know what she was going to do if he didn’t call. She’d stopped herself from calling the Gunman’s office twice yesterday. He’d call sooner or later. Ed knew when a man was interested in her. But sooner would be better.

“I folded the laundry, Ed.” Sven came into the kitchen and dropped a kiss on her neck as he passed. “I’m going to be out for the evening. Don’t worry if I’m late. We’re going to play some hockey then find a bar.”

His mother must be incredibly proud, Ed thought with an internal chuckle. He cleaned and cooked and did laundry as if these chores were natural and effortless. He even cleaned the bathrooms. Scrubbed the bathrooms, Ed amended. Sven was gorgeous, dependable, affectionate. Some young woman in California had a once-in-a-lifetime gift headed her way.

“He’s gay, right?” Ed’s friend, and once employee, Mary had kept repeating during the first month after Sven had moved in. “Normal men don’t --”

“Cook, clean, and find women old enough to be their mothers attractive?” Ed had inquired with only a dab of sarcasm.

“Oh. God no. Ed, you’re a dish.” Mary had retreated with laughing disclaimer. “You’re also notorious for finding sweet young things. As long as I’ve known you, one guy in the over 40 range, you sly bitch. It’s the laundry that really gets me.”

Mary’s husband was -- and there was no way Ed could have politely expressed it -- a slob. He had been raised by a mother who opened soup cans for him until he was in his late 20s. Nice guy, just typically male. Ed had never been interested in any _typical_ man.

To get a date with her a man needed to be able to compose five consecutive sentences that didn’t contain information about sports, or himself. He had to have a sense of humor. Looks were appreciated, but men of unique or strong character were what really got her motor racing. To get a second date with her a man had to make her motor race.

Sven had been a no-brainer. Although their politics didn’t quite mesh, and their tastes in music and films revealed the difference in their ages, Sven could carry on a conversation about almost anything. He laughed a lot, and the things he laughed at weren’t cruel or hurtful.

Many times during their relationship Ed had thought that if she were 20 years younger Sven would have been toast. As it was the lack of any possibility of diamond jewelry, ceremonies or babies in their future didn’t bother Ed, and she was pretty sure the same lack of pressure had made Sven totally comfortable with her. They’d been friends before they were lovers, and were still friends even after Sven learned that dinner and a kiss from a man she’d just met had resulted in the end of their sharing a bed.

Something rumbled again. Ed closed her eyes and let the steam from her coffee cup moisturize her face, remembering how she'd felt leaning against Melvin's chest. It had been an unusual action for her. It had been an unusual kiss.

The phone rang, and Ed nearly dropped her cup. She took a deep breath and grabbed the phone.

"Ed Norton here."

"Ed!" A baby was squalling in the background.

"Hello, Mary." Ed poured herself more coffee and took the phone back to the window. "How's the baby?"

"He's got colic." Snuffling and garbled thumps followed the news. "Tell me again why I went 32 years without a baby, then lost my mind?"

"Clocks. Posterity. A change in birth control methods," Ed said, laughing. She could hear the giddy tiredness in Mary's voice. "Are you getting any sleep? Is Andrew helping?"

Andrew the slob, Ed thought, knowing the answer to her question before Mary hedged around it.

"As much as he can, but I'm breast feeding, you know. I'm watching a lot of Gomer Pyle reruns, Ed. You'd be shocked at the quality of late-late night TV."

"We finished cleaning out the shop." A particularly loud wail made Ed move the receiver away from her ear. "Mary?"

"I know. It's sad. You'll have to come over and see the baby, and we can reminisce. That's not why I called, Ed. You didn't call me yesterday. How'd Sven take it?"

She'd made the mistake of calling Mary the morning after her dinner with Melvin Frohike. Never call your friends when you've been drinking, or when you've just discovered you're . . . Ed backed away from the thought quickly.

"He's such a sweetie," Ed said. "He wanted to make sure it wasn't something he'd done. When I told him about Melvin he said he hoped I'd finally found a man that would mean as much to me as my car does. He was laughing."

"How do you get so lucky? You're not kicking him out totally?"

"Sven is comfortable here. I've got two bedrooms. There's no reason for him to change his plans. He'll stay until he leaves for L.A." Ed could hear little wet hiccoughs coming from Mary's end. "I didn't call you yesterday," she said slowly, "because I was afraid to be on the phone -- in case he was trying to call."

"Ed!" Mary's amazement was palpable. "I don't believe you just admitted that. He hasn't called, and you haven't called him? What's the hold up?"

"For one thing, I can't believe I'm being so preteen over a phone call," Ed said, stealing a quick drink of coffee. "For another, it's business, Mary. I'm trying to force the man to give me a job. It isn't personal. I can't let it be personal."

"It got personal when you kicked Sven out of bed," Mary said shrewdly. "How many years have I known you, Ed? This is weird behavior, for you. How old is this guy? What's he look like? If you've found an improved version of Sven, women everywhere will worship at your feet."

Mary's words brought a painfully large grin to Ed's face. "He's older than I am, Mary. He's got character."

"That's it? He's got character? That's like hearing a man describe a bad date by saying she had nice hair." Mary snorted. "Honey, you are gone, so gone. I can't wait to meet him."

A loud scream made Ed's hand jerk the receiver away from her ear again. "You better walk him for a while, Mary. I'll call you later."

"If this Melvin calls, you call me right away," Mary said from a distance. "Bye!"

If he calls. When he calls. If I call. When I call.

Ed ran upstairs to shower and dress for the day, afraid to examine in detail just what she was hoping for when the phone finally rang.


	5. Chapter 5

**LGHQ, FRIDAY 3:30 p.m.**

"I don't want to seem ungrateful, but we have to do something."

Byers had the same tie on that he'd worn yesterday, Frohike noticed. That always meant he'd been abnormally preoccupied while dressing, not a good sign. The two-days-in-row-tie sign usually preceded a week of quiet depression, or a black-ops trip into some tight, hard to reach space in a hostile environment.

Frohike had been abnormally preoccupied, himself. It was possible, now that he thought about it, that he'd worn the same pair of boxers for the last three days.

Time to get a grip, he thought, tuning back into Byers' complaints.

"What'd Jimmy do now?" Langly asked.

"I just got off the phone with a Scoutmaster who wanted to bring his troop in to tour our offices," Byers said. "Jimmy told him we might make a good field trip."

"Oh, brother." Frohike was glad that Byers had ended up taking that call. "Are we going to keep bitching about Jimmy, or are we going to do something about our basic problem?"

They'd talked about Edwina Norton's offer to sell advertising for them. Byers and Langly had both been cautiously interested, but had voted to think it over for a few days. Frohike, who had reached for the phone, holding her business card, six or seven times during the last two days, had also reached the end of his patience.

"I'm calling her. We don't have anything to lose. She'll work on commission. Byers, you can have the veto on any questionable accounts. Langly, you don't give a shit as long as everyone stays away from your computers."

"All right," Byers said slowly, looking at Langly, who nodded his head. "Ask her to come in. I'd like to hear her ideas, and get a feel for what kind of advertiser she has in mind."

Frohike went for the phone like a piranha going for a bleeding cow leg. He dialed Ed's house number from memory. Memory was also supplying, as it had done for the last two days, a replay of The Kiss. When the ringing stopped, and he heard her voice, he had to clear his throat before he could speak.

"Ed? It's Melvin Frohike. Byers and Langly are interested in your offer. Could you stop in and talk to them? Explain your proposition to them?" Here we go again, Frohike thought, gritting his teeth. Bad word choice disease.

But Ed was laughing, almost hysterically he thought. "Is this afternoon okay? I'll be right over."

"Good. Great. We'll be here." Frohike flipped the receiver shut and whacked it against his head. "Maybe this isn't a good idea."

"I'd say the fact you're starting to pick up Jimmy's mannerisms is a significant argument for _some_ kind of drastic action," Byers said, pointing at the phone. "It's not like she'd be working here in the office, right next to you, day and night."

Frohike caught the quicksilver gleam in Byers' eyes. A good sign. If Byers was teasing him, he couldn't be on the verge of a major depression. "Yeah." He turned to leave the work area.

"Hey! Where you goin'?" Langly yelled. "Your little pink-haired squeeze is on her way."

"Do I interrogate you every time you go to the can?" Frohike kept walking, his back towards his friends, afraid they'd see something in his face. Hopefully he'd have time to clean up a little and change his shorts and socks. If only for his own peace of mind, Frohike thought. You never knew when you might get invited to go for a car ride, and everyone knew fresh undies were required apparel on such occasions.

 

Coming back from his whirlwind of personal grooming, Frohike heard her before he saw her, and groaned. That soft, indefinably accented voice belonged to one of two people he wasn't keen on having around when Ed showed up.

"Yves. Out for a night of dumpster diving?" She was hanging over Langly, Frohike saw as he came up between the work stations, pointing at Langly's monitor with one hand and resting the other casually on Langly's shoulder. Langly seemed uneasy with the location of both her hands.

"Frohike. You're looking very dapper today," Yves said. She let go of Langly's shoulder. "I just needed Langly to confirm a couple of minor bits of information for me. I think you'll agree that you owe me that much of a favor."

"Glad to be of service, Mata Hari." Frohike shrugged. Give her what she wants and get her out of here, he thought wildly as he heard the strident alarm of the door buzzer.

Yves abandoned Langly and walked toward him. Before Frohike quite knew what she intended, Yves reached to smooth one of his sideburns, straighten his collar, and pat his cheek. "Expecting company? There's an air of anticipation about you."

It was inevitable, Frohike thought with a sensation of dread, that Byers theatrical throat-clearing should signal Ed's arrival upon the tableau.

"Will you excuse us, Yves?" Byers asked politely. "We have an interview scheduled."

Yves looked toward Langly. "I'll come back for the data." She bent to gave Frohike a quick, unexpected, peck on the cheek. "Later, boys."

Frohike watched her sway past Ed, watched Ed watch her sway past, and knew that something significant had just happened. Something he probably wouldn't enjoy making unhappen.

"She's quite lovely," Ed said as she followed Byers into their work area. "Amazing hip action. As tight as she is, you wouldn't think she'd have to concentrate on holding her stomach in while she walked."

Langly's saliva-heavy explosion of laughter dominated the conversation for the next few seconds. "Major burn. You're hired, Eddie," he finally managed. "I don't care what she wants to do, Byers. Her sheet came up clean, although if Frohike's looking to make time with her he's got some big shoes to fill."

Apparently his misery would be compounded, Frohike thought, watching Ed's face as she pushed past him to get to Langly.

"Langly!" Byers objected. "That wasn't --"

"He figures if I can dish it out, I ought to be able to take it," Ed said, leaning in so she was nearly nose to nose with him. "Mr. Langly. You've located information about me and created a file with that information?"

"Well -- yeah. SOP," Langly said, grinning at her. "You'd be surprised."

"No. I wouldn't. I lived it, thus I have an excellent idea of what retrievable information might exist about me," Ed snapped each word out, tapping a finger against Langly's nose. "I get that this is SOP for you; but buddy, if you let Melvin read that file you'll have to wear a Kevlar cup for the rest of your life."

Langly looked at her in surprise, judging the depth of her sincerity. He grinned. "I can't even tell him your natural hair color?"

"Eventually, he'll find out for himself," Ed said. "Are we going to talk business, or do I suck in my stomach muscles and sway my ass out your absurdly overprotected front door?"

"I think, business," Byers said, stroking his mustache in a piss-poor effort to hide a grin.

There was just so much a man could take. Frohike found a chair and sat down.

 

 **FRIDAY, 6:30 P.M., ENROUTE TO EDWINA NORTON'S HOME**

Predictably, traffic was thick and snarled. The storm that had been simmering all day had finally reached its boiling point, and was spitting water in gusts, making the pavement slick. Ed popped in a CD, turned the volume up and grimly concentrated on getting her much loved VW home without a scratch. "You've got the way to move me, Cherry . . ." Ed sang along with Neil Diamond at the top of her lungs, resolutely refusing to examine her behavior at the office until she was in a place where she could shut her eyes and pull a pillow over her head.

She parked Cherry in the garage, and turned the exterior lights on for Sven. She was glad he wasn't home tonight. He would have seen she was upset and pried the whole story out of her.

Food sounded terrible. Ed heated a cup of water in the microwave and selected one of Sven's more innocuous flavors of herbal tea.

"What was I thinking?" Ed climbed the stairs, noticing that Sven had placed a vase of roses and carnations on the table at the head of the landing. She stopped and pushed her nose into one of the roses. "What must he think of me?" she whispered into the rose.

Ed could hear the rain hitting hard against the dormer window roof when she stepped into her bedroom. She put the tea on her bed stand then stripped off her clothes, finding an ancient pair of sweats and her comfort t-shirt. She caught a glimpse of herself in the floor length mirror as she dropped her laundry into the hamper, and paused to confront her image full on.

An old lady with pink hair, wearing a faded green t-shirt printed with the Caterpillar from Alice. Ed stroked a hand over her breasts, feeling the grainy remnants of what had once been glitter. The t-shirt was at least 30 years old.

"Your life, lady. Remnants of the past. In pretty good shape, all things considered, but still ..." Ed turned away from the mirror.

What got her, what _really_ got her, was that she'd never in her life been rude or catty to another woman without just cause. The fact that the leggy, exotic beauty had left the room before Ed's remarks didn't excuse her. In a way, it made Ed more ashamed of herself.

She'd always liked other women. Girlfriends got you through the everyday slog. It was impossible to imagine what life would have been like without Junie, Mary, Celeste, Andrea, Laralee . . . and so many more over the years. Ed had never gotten up on a soapbox, never marched or whined about women's issues. She'd always known that to make change happen you had to respect other women, listen to them, then dig in and get your hands dirty doing what needed to be done.

You definitely didn't diss an unknown woman in front of a bunch of men.

Ed wanted to crawl under her bed. Instead she curled up between the mound of feather pillows, shut her eyes and drank her tea. She could see Melvin in her mind's eye, looking up at the dark-haired beauty's face. The woman was proprietarily stroking his hair and cheek, speaking to him intimately. When her lips brushed Melvin's cheek, Ed had experienced a strongly primitive sensation.

 _Get your hands off him, sister. He's mine._ Ed shivered with embarrassment. He wasn't hers. They'd just met. They might get to know each other better. Nothing was certain.

It wasn't going away. Ed could feel the primal need to claim territorial rights clawing its way out of a part of her psyche she hadn't even known existed. _Mine. Want. Mine._

"I'm being an idiot." Ed whispered. She'd never obsessed over a man. Maybe her decision to close her business had affected her mental health in some way she hadn't admitted. Maybe hormone replacement therapy could help. Maybe Melvin Frohike was her once-in-a-lifetime gift, even if the gift had been a long time in the delivery.

The tea was gone. Ed set the cup aside and pulled her comforter over her. It was too early to go to bed, but a half hour nap might clear her mind.

Byers and Langly seemed like nice men. Both claimed to appreciate the outline of her sales campaign. Byers in particular had asked intelligent questions. Melvin had been too quiet, Ed thought. Even when they got the point of making a schedule for her to check in at the offices, it had been Byers who did all the talking.

 _Do what you do best: be a professional. Don't let it get personal_ , Ed admonished herself. _And play nice with others. You don't walk up to the slide and whack the kid with the popsicle just because it looks so damned good._

Wrong mental construct, Ed realized with chagrin as her thoughts went spinning off in several directions, none of them rated PG.

Ed wished she'd taken Sven up on his offer to pay her way to that self-hypnosis seminar he'd attended last month. She tried to control her breathing and clear her mind. _Must take nap . . ._

 

 **EDWINA NORTON'S HOME, 11:30 P.M.**

Frohike sat in the van, looking at the house behind the number that matched the address on the wrinkled business card he held. He'd just needed to get out of the office for a little while, he'd told Langly. Just go for a drive. Just find where Ed lived, then sit and stare at the lights in her windows.

He knew hardly anything about her. They'd spent a few hours together, that didn't make him an expert on Edwina Norton. But something had been off this afternoon. He suspected it had to do with Yves. But Ed's off behavior had continued during her interview with Byers. She'd been bright, charming and professional. The guys had loved her. Frohike couldn't shake the idea she was putting on a big act.

How stupid was that? Frohike ridiculed himself, trying to see through the gaps in the house curtains. That's 95 percent of what sales was. A good act. Ed was only proving she could be good at the job.

He wasn't going to the door. He _so_ wasn't going to the door.

"I'm screwed." Frohike wrenched open the van door and, before the message his heart was sending his feet could be countermanded by his wussy brain, he walked up the rain soaked sidewalk to Ed's front door and rang the bell.

It seemed like an eternity before the door opened. When it did, Frohike found all the saliva had dried in his mouth, leaving him thick-tongued and speechless. It didn't help that Ed looked like she'd just crawled out of bed. Her pink toes were bare. She was wearing baggy sweats and a tight tee that clearly showed she didn't wear a bra to bed. She wasn't wearing her glasses, and her hair was mussed around her eyes and face like a soft, pink cloud.

"Melvin." She seemed as stunned as he felt. "Come in."

Frohike remembered to pick his feet up enough to clear the threshold, and avoid tripping over any of the throw rugs scattered about the hardwood floor. He followed her into a living room lined with bookshelves.

"Your visit is a surprise," Ed was saying. She sat down on one end of a deep, moss green suede couch. "Sit down."

"It's a surprise to both of us," Frohike said. He sat stiffly, turning slightly so he could face her. "If I'm intruding?"

"I'm alone right now," Ed said. "Would you like a drink? Lemonade, tea, beer?"

"No thanks." When he got home, he'd drink then, Frohike promised himself. "I couldn't help thinking something was wrong." It came out in a rush, before he could organize his thoughts. "If I did something, Ed, I'll try to fix it. You have to believe we're all pretty pumped about having you on board."

"Oh. Melvin." Ed's voice sounded stressed. "You didn't do anything -- except convince your friends to give me a chance at doing a job. I felt like a fool because I made that comment about your visitor. If _I'd_ been interviewing for a position and someone had made a remark like that, I would have said, _Thank you. Next, please._ "

"That's it?" Frohike couldn't believe that it could be this simple. "I had a feeling it was something to do with Yves. You don't need to worry about it. We've said a lot worse about her."

"But you know her." Ed sighed. "Was there anything else?"

"No," Frohike said, slowly. "I'll be going."

Her mouth was slightly parted, and her eyes had picked up the green from the couch, making them look like luminous jade. Something hot and heavy crawled over his chest and shoulders, up his neck, squeezed his lungs and contracted the muscles in his abdomen. His entire body was burning.

How he managed to get to his feet, Frohike wasn't quite sure. He turned away from her, and it was like trying to swim against a strong current. "It's late. I'm sorry," he said over his shoulder. "See you at the office."

He made it to the door before she caught up with him.

"Melvin?"

"Ed?" He had one hand on the doorknob, but couldn't prevent himself from turning around.

It was a mistake. She moved from a scant two feet away directly into his arms in the blink of an eye.

If the first kiss had been a wild ride, the second kiss was ground zero at an asteroid collision. Ed was molded against his chest, making little noises and working her hands under his vest while her mouth . . . her mouth . . . There were so many points of interest to choose from that Frohike thought his operating system might have just have overloaded and frozen.

"Ed." He pulled his mouth away from hers. "I gotta go. Now." Frohike heard the urgency in his own voice, felt the urgency that had turned his blood into lava. Somehow his hands had tangled in her tee, and touching her skin with only his hands wasn't enough. Wasn't nearly enough.

"All right." Her voice caught on the words, and then she kissed him again.

 _It's your lucky night, Melvin._ An unmistakable mile-marker had just been passed, the one that indicated the number of steps to the bedroom had been reduced to a single digit.

"Ed?" he asked against her mouth.

"Yes," she said.

The door opened behind them.

"Sorry! I'll just slip through." The tall, broad-shouldered blond boy looked amazed, but smiled as he politely edged around them. "I'm Sven. You must be Melvin."

The kid had biceps and calves like eggplants. Not the kind of eggplants you find suck-wrapped with plastic in grocery store bins, but the kind of veg that's been sitting in the sun in a well-tended home garden, growing plump and firm. Frohike stared at the kid's butt as he ran up the stairs.

"Wow," he said after Sven disappeared around the landing. "That's your boyfriend?"

Ed pulled her t-shirt back into place. "Was. Was my boyfriend."

"I really gotta go, Ed. I'll see you next week. At work." Frohike reached for the knob and this time made it out the door.


	6. Chapter 6

**MAD JACK'S COMPUTER REPAIR, 11:30 P.M.**

It had been 24-hours.

Mad Jack started to shut down his workroom, feeling unaccustomed exhaustion make his eyes blur and his legs tingle. He hadn't been able to sleep the night before, and had astounded his wife by getting up before 6 a.m. to head back to the store. She'd called around noon to see if he was okay.

Mad Jack had lied to her. He was fine, just working on last minute tax stuff.

In truth, he'd spent the morning trying to get information about the former owner of the repossessed cubicle. He'd gone through channels he seldom used, contacts who lived on the dark side of the wholesale district, contacts who might have been related to him if it had been possible to trace their genealogy. Mad Jack's gut told him that he didn't want to leave any garish neon signs pointing back to his business.

The black box sat in plain sight in the middle of an empty space on his workbench. The irritatingly imprecise premonition that had been sticking needle claws into the back of his neck for the last 24-hours had at least counselled him that if someone came looking for the thing, it would be better for Mad Jack if they could find it easily, without needing to ask for directions.

He almost hoped that would happen, soon. He'd hold the door for them on their way out, and wish them god -- or whatever -- speed.

For some reason the premonition had nixed his various ideas for destroying the whole packing case, black box included. Instead of sinking into an area landfill, or melting in an incinerator, the box was still squatting like a melanoma in the middle of his bench, and the premonition was now advising Mad Jack to go home, make love to his wife, tell her where all his important documents were located, then spend some time in prayer.

Mad Jack turned out the lights, turned on his alarm system. He hadn't abandoned all hope. His hyperactive "sense" was also telling him that good luck was headed his way, so maybe he wouldn't tell his wife where _all_ the documents were located.

 

 **MAD JACK'S COMPUTER REPAIR, SATURDAY - 10 A.M.**

The showroom was empty and quiet. Ed heard the tinkle of a bell in the distance, and looked around at the shelves full of neatly tagged electronic equipment. Her agency had designed Mad Jack's last sales campaign, and because of mounting employee problems Ed had coordinated the job herself. Mad Jack was a strange, but likeable, character.

Shrewd, Ed thought. That summed him up, and that was the reason he'd go for her pitch. Where else could he get the kind of exposure the Gunman offered for the money it would cost him?

"Hey." Mad Jack poked his head cautiously around the door jamb, then smiled and came all the way into the showroom. "Edwina! You looking for a PC or TV, maybe?"

She smiled and offered her hand. She'd learned right away that Mad Jack was fixated on hand shaking, and wasn't completely at ease until he'd gone through the greeting ritual. "I'm not buying, Jack -- I'm selling."

"Oh." Mad Jack held onto her hand instead of letting go, staring at her with the expression of a man who'd just seen the light of the grail above the castle. "Ed. Baby. Anything you're selling, I'll buy."

It was disconcerting. Ed had expected more in the way of explanation and banter. A little bartering over the rate. Some demands about page position. "You don't even know what I'm --"

"Come on back." Mad Jack darted behind her and, disturbingly, locked the door and flipped over his sign to read _closed_. "I gotta little tea going. You can talk to me."

His office was like one of the "Find It" puzzle books Ed liked to buy as presents for her friends' children. Floor to ceiling shelves were packed with every conceivable form of electronic equipment, reference books, stacks of CD jewel cases and one whole wall of monitors that gave the impression it had been arranged as a kind of op art display. While Jack poured tea into delicate porcelain cups, Ed opened her briefcase and brought out the last three issues of the _Lone Gunman_.

"Thank you." She took the tea cup and gave Mad Jack the papers. "Have you seen this before?"

"Yes." There was the look again, the glowing, almost reverent amazement. "I see copies around."

"I'm selling advertising for them." Ed found the rate card she'd put together after her talk with Byers and handed it across the desk. "The price is right, Jack. This publication goes to a lot of people who might need capable, discreet hard drive rescues, and other electronic services."

Mad Jack shook his head, holding his tea cup with an oddly dainty gesture, little finger crooked in the air. "Why you workin' on Saturday, Ed? I heard your place is for rent. That Bobby guy you had designing for you -- heard he went to jail. Drugs."

"I was in business 16 years, Jack. How long have you been here? Haven't you had the urge to retire?"

"Twenty five, you baby." Mad Jack grinned at her. "There's no distance to you, Ed. You still hanging out with the blond stud or have you traded him in?"

Ed blushed. She could feel the heat and color flame into her cheeks. "Inquisitive bastard. Can we talk business?"

"Sure. I got some money left in the advertising budget." He rocked back and forth in his fatly upholstered chair with his fingers steepled, looking her over. "I'll spend it with you. But your employers gotta do me a favor."

Whatever she'd expected, it hadn't been a godfather directive. "I guess I've got two questions, Jack: how much money are we talking, and what's the favor?"

"Spoken like a true ad rep." Mad Jack laughed at her. "I got six grand I was thinking about spending on flyers. It's yours. Design some ads for me."

"The favor?" Ed asked cautiously, her heart racing with the thrill of making her first sale, and the apprehension that Mad Jack had something totally unsuitable in mind.

"They deal with weird stuff. I've got a crate I want them to take off my hands." He stopped rocking, and leaned over the desk staring straight into her eyes. "I don't care what they do with it. I don't want to know. But if they can get it out of my warehouse before Monday morning, you've got my business."

"They're journalists, not waste management technicians," Ed protested. "What's in the crate?"

Mad Jack shook his head. "That's the deal, baby. I'll be here until 6. Give me a call."


	7. Chapter 7

**LGHQ, SATURDAY - NOON**

Byers spent the morning bringing their accounts up to date. It was always easier to concentrate on the financial part of the business when the others were absent. Langly tended to talk to himself, or his computer, while he worked. Frohike rarely sat still for very long.

Even when their pockets were nearly empty, Byers liked to pay the bills, balance the books and check their status against previous years records. There was nothing emotional about bookkeeping, nothing subject to wrenching choice or regret. Money came in, money went out. It was simple, cut and dried mathematics.

His stomach gave a small, polite rumble, and he glanced at his watch. He'd found a horrific mess in the kitchen that morning, and spent an hour and a half cleaning before he could get to work in the office. Byers had gone to bed last night before Frohike returned. On a drive to see his squeeze, Langly had said.

Byers hoped it had gone well, but from the mountain of pans he thought not. Frohike only cooked Mexican after midnight when life was out of kilter. Too bad. Byers closed his bookkeeping program and tidied the desk. What he'd seen of Edwina Norton, he liked.

His stomach rumbled again. Glancing down the row of monitors one last time before heading to the kitchen to make himself a sandwich, Byers caught a flicker of wrongness from Langly's corner.

"What the heck is that?" Byers reversed course and went to stand in front of Langly's monitor. If Langly was running a screensaver, it was a strange one. Dark red words flowed across a solid black background, like a ticker feed.

 _restofmegetmeoutrestofmehelpgetmeoutrestofmegetme_

He'd have to wake Langly. It was after noon. Even if he'd stayed up with Frohike, he would have gotten a few hours sleep. Langly rarely made it past 4 a.m.

The buzzer went off before he could act on his decision. Ed Norton was standing under the hallway camera, dressed in a three-piece suit and carrying a briefcase.

"Hello." Byers let her in. He wondered where she'd gotten the suit. The tailoring was superb. It minimized her breasts, but let her look feminine and corporate at the same time. Not even the pink hair made too much impact on her overall businesslike image. "Nice suit, Edwina."

"Thanks." She looked around. For Frohike, Byers thought, smiling at her.

"I'm the only one awake right now," he said. "I was about to make a sandwich. Would you like to join me?"

"I'm not hungry. But I'd take a cold drink," Ed said.

Byers led the way to the kitchen. "Did you need something? I didn't expect to see you until Monday morning."

"I got an early start." She sounded almost embarrassed. "I had a first target in mind. You've heard of Mad Jack's Computer Repair?"

"Of course." Byers opened the refrigerator and checked the contents. The money from the full-page ad had been quickly exhausted, and groceries were running low again. "We have orange juice."

"Water would be fine." Ed made a face. "The first time I was here I think Langly was drinking out of that carton."

"Oh." Byers pulled back from the fridge, appalled. "I've asked him not to."

"Make your sandwich. I'll get my own water."

She was laughing at him, Byers realized, but kindly.

"I've worked with Mad Jack before," Ed said. "He's willing to advertise."

Bread, mayo, mustard . . . "That's great." Turkey, pickles, cheese . . .

"But you have to do something for him, first."

Byers' hand stopped mid-stroke across the slice of whole wheat. "I don't understand."

"I'm not sure I do either. Not totally." Ed pushed him away from the sandwich makings and pointed at a chair. She sprayed a glob of mustard onto the bread, rapidly layered it with meat and cheese, garnished it with two pickles, cut it diagonally and handed it to him on a paper napkin. "Eat and listen."

She was talking fast, and Byers found himself chewing quicker than he normally did as Ed's explanation of her first sales call came to an end.

"You don't know what's in the crate?" he asked when he'd swallowed the last piece of crust.

"No. Mad Jack does, though, and it scares him," Ed said.

Byers felt his eyebrows shoot up. "Scares him?"

"He's got gypsy blood," Ed explained. "He gets feelings about things."

"Ed," Byers said slowly, "my concept of selling advertising is: we provide space for a message, someone pays for that space. Doing odd jobs is not included in this equation."

"Aren't you curious?" Ed asked slyly. "Wouldn't you even come with me and talk to him? It would only take a few minutes. What else are you doing today?"

He was beginning to see why Frohike was attracted to her, they had similar personality traits and wheedling skills. "Langly will be awake soon, and I'd be very surprised if Jimmy doesn't drop by this afternoon. Frohike usually gets up around 3 or 4. This is something we should all talk about."

"Mad Jack wants to hear from us by 6," Ed said. She looked at him over the top of her wire-rims with an intent, pleading expression.

"He will," Byers promised. "Whatever we decide."

"Thank you. Will you call me?" She was full of sunny humor again, flashing her dimple at him.

"No," Byers said deliberately, finding his own deep humor in the conviction that beneath the surface of this eccentric woman the heart of a corporate raider was vacationing. "I think you should be in on the discussion. Can you come back at 4:30?"

"Of course."

 

 **LGHQ, SATURDAY - 5:00 P.M.**

"We can move a crate," Jimmy said. "We rent one of those little trucks, and put the thing in my garage." He beamed, proud of himself for reducing a complex issue to the essentials.

"What do you think, Frohike?" Byers asked.

Frohike started. He'd been trying not to stare at Ed's faded, tight blue jeans, and especially not at her fitted tee that bore a trio of cat musicians with the legend _Sex, mice and rock 'n roll_ on it. Langly had given her a whistle and big thumbs-up when she arrived.

"I think for six grand we can at least talk to him," he said, avoiding Ed's eyes.

"I'm in," Langly said. "As long as no bodies are involved."

Byers shook his head. "You told me I could veto anything questionable, Frohike. I'm close on this, but I tend to agree with you. We can talk to him." He extracted his cell phone from his jacket pocket and handed it to Ed. "Call him."

Ed dialed, waited. "Mad Jack? Yes. They want to talk to you first. We're on our way." She closed the phone and handed it back to Byers. "He wants you to come over now."

"Field trip!" Jimmy was on his feet. "Can I ride with Ed?"

"My turn, man." Langly said.

Frohike didn't like the smirk that accompanied the words. "I'll drive," he said, glaring at Langly. After all, the kid was tall and blond. Ed seemed to like tall, blond, young boys. "We'll be right behind you, Ed."

They trooped up the stairs and loaded into the vehicles. Frohike watched Cherry turn out of the alley, signalled and followed as closely as he dared, pulling on his lights. He could see Langly's head bobbing around animatedly. They were singing, Frohike realized.

"Keep your eyes on the road, Frohike." Byers sat next to him. Jimmy was far in the back, playing with the night vision goggles.

"Don't touch those!" Frohike ignored Byers in favor of shouting at Jimmy.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Byers asked softly, so Jimmy wouldn't hear him, Frohike assumed thankfully.

"Talk about what?" Frohike slammed on the brakes as Cherry stopped for a red light.

"Gee. I don't know. The weather? The reason you're dancing around Ed like a millipede with blisters?"

"Nice." Frohike shot a look at Byers, and shook his head, knowing that -- as sensitive as Byers was -- talk about their lack of love lives was not easy for him. "It's a rocky road."

"It is," Byers said wistfully. "It is that."

"Where can I get a pair of these?" Jimmy moved back up front.

Frohike let Byers deal with the kid's flood of questions over their toys, and concentrated on following the VW ahead of him. He knew the way to Mad Jack's, had been there a couple of times a few years back looking for parts. Paid top dollar for what he needed, Frohike remembered with a twinge, although the merchandise had been well worth the cost.

He needed to make a decision about Ed. No use denying the blond kid had been a jolt, and no use denying that it was a big part of what made Ed so appealing. A woman close to his own age with similar life experience, smart, sexy, funny, unpredictable . . . and unless his ego had jumped the dangerous rift between reality and fantasy, she had been as aroused as he had been by their little make-out session.

He'd been the one to drop the ball, so to speak. The kid had come through the door and, Frohike admitted, one of his surge protectors had kicked out. Sven might have been Ed's son. Frohike usually made no judgments about what consenting adults did, but even _his_ ego had been shaken by a graphic fantasy of Sven and Ed doing the same things he hoped to do with her.

Yet Ed had said _was my boyfriend_. Past tense.

And I'm way past tense, Frohike thought. They'd arrived at the freshly painted building with Mad Jack's billboard looming overhead. He parked the bus, resolving that he'd talk to Ed soon. He was no kid. He didn't find the prospect of mooning over another unobtainable goddess, full of angsty despair, the least bit palatable. He'd had a taste of Ed, and by god, he was going to go all the way to the bottom of the marmalade jar.


	8. Chapter 8

**MAD JACK’S COMPUTER REPAIR, SATURDAY 6:15 P.M.**

A week previously Edwina Norton had been watching television and feeling slightly numb and forlorn. She'd been channel surfing, eating cheddar-flavored potato chips by the handful (always a sure sign she was either about to start her period, or life had been stressful), trying not to dwell on the fact that after this particular weekend, when Monday morning came, she'd have no reason to get out of bed and hurry in to work.

She felt adrift, without purpose. She still had friends. She still had Sven. But the biggest, most satisfying part of her adult life had just been neatly boxed up and swept out.

Watching television only deepened her discontent. Talk about a vast wasteland. Even a few minutes spent watching the latest, painfully silly, space opera failed to cheer her. When the nicely muscled black man with the beautiful eyes finished his few lines and was replaced by yet another babe in leather, Ed nearly turned the set off. But her finger still punched the button, to stop as a new commercial for a tarot card reader caught her interest.

Ed loved Madame Lola's commercials. They were some of the most effectively produced bits of consumer baiting she'd ever seen. Not like that drippy wannabehip soda pop campaign that currently made her want to heave the remote control through the screen. Madame Lola's producers had a crystal clear vision of their target audience, and knew the exact buttons to push. Madame Lola was the perfect focus for the message. Her commanding, autocratic physical beauty, her melodious voice, the sharp delivery of judgment that rivaled the acerbity of Judge Judy -- these abilities in tandem with her evident ability to see through phone lines direct to the hearts and lives of her callers. . . Well, more than once Ed had to stop herself from getting up and calling the 800 number, just out of curiosity.

Her head said, _scam here, nobody can see the future_. Prediction was another thing altogether, but prediction depended on the amount of information you already had in your possession, a degree of skill, and a degree of luck. Just consider the variable success of weather forecasting, Ed had thought.

Finally turning off the television, Ed had gone to spend some time polishing Cherry. It had never registered that she was suppressing the fact she _knew_ someone who'd shown he could do the very thing she'd just dismissed with a patronizing chuckle.

 

Exactly one week later, almost to the minute, Edwina Norton was parking Cherry outside Mad Jack's Computer Repair. She'd dumped Sven, possibly fallen in love with a strange, complicated little man older than she was, and created a new job for herself. Just before she opened her door a kind of time-compression-deja vu-memory moment froze her hand on her keys, and Langly's voice -- which hadn't stopped since they got into the car -- faded.

_Mad Jack, handing her a can of tire goo just before she left his office, when they were working on his first ad campaign. "Take it, if you want to get home."_

It was true, Ed had noticed the right rear tire was low that morning. When she exited the shop and looked at it closer, she'd found a piece of metal driven tightly between the treads. And Mad Jack hadn't been outside during her entire visit.

_Mad Jack, making her stay and have tea with him after hours._

She'd heard him calling his wife, telling her he'd be an hour late for dinner. They'd chatted about inconsequential, but pleasant subjects. Mad Jack had frequently glanced at his watch. It was a strange visit, but Ed was willing to humor a client. The drive home had taken longer than usual due to a police blockade around the five-car pileup on her usual route.

Ed was not blindly pragmatic. She'd filed the incidents under _strange-but-true_ , and gone on to extrapolate the reason for Mad Jack's insistence on hand shaking. Perhaps he had premonitions. Perhaps he was sensitive to picking up on information other people let fly over their heads, or out their mouths without thinking. It didn't affect their relationship, and wasn't something Ed spent a lot of time wondering about. She'd been a busy, happy woman with other things to occupy her mind.

"You coming in?" Langly was half in, half out of the car.

"Don't slam that!" she said, removing her keys from the ignition.

Mad Jack waited for them near the front door, opening it himself and ushering them inside. He shook hands with each of the men, then stood and looked at them with an expression that Ed had seen once, just after he’d sold an AV system to an area private school.

“You’ll wanna see the crate,” Mad Jack said.

“We’d also like to see the contents of the crate.” Byers stepped to the fore of the group, taking charge.

Byers would be a good employee, Ed thought, surprised by an unusual surge of maternal feeling. He was the one who kept them grounded. A quick look around confirmed her opinion. Langly had wandered off to look at the equipment on the shelves. Jimmy stood in back of Byers with his arms folded, looking very much like the muscle of the group, or a surfer who'd wandered away from a beach and couldn't find his way home. Frohike had stopped avoiding her eyes. He smiled at her, and Ed felt her train of thought take a sidetrack. He looked so cute in that black leather jacket and vest, with those fingerless leather gloves.

“No can do.” Mad Jack shook his head genially. “Sight unseen, that’s the deal.” He turned and walked toward the back of the shop.

“Will you assure us that this crate contains nothing harmful, or illegal --"

“Or dead,” Langly said, interrupting Byers’ careful phrasing.

“Nothing dead,” Mad Jack said. “At least -- not dead."

“Hardly an answer that inspires confidence,” Frohike said. He moved to stand beside Ed. “Why do you want to get rid of it?”

“It doesn’t belong here, and I’ve got a hunch you will figure out where it does belong.” Mad Jack stopped in front of a large wooden crate. “Blondie will know what to do with it.”

“Me?” Langly shook his head, sending his hair flying.

“We need a moment to consult.” Byers motioned them to join him a few steps back from Mad Jack and the crate. “Ed? You’re the only one here who knows this guy. Do you recommend we do this?"

"Let me talk to him." Ed had employed ten people by the time she'd closed her business. She was comfortable with the responsibility of managing, cautioning, counselling, stroking and firing other human beings. The responsibility of recommending that her new employers take possession of Mad Jack's crate made her uncomfortable. This was not something she wanted to screw up.

Ed took Mad Jack by the arm and walked him away from the group. "Give me a reason," she said quietly. "Why should I recommend that these men, who I'm barely acquainted with, take something you're desperate to get rid of?"

Mad Jack smiled down at her. "So you dumped the stud for the troll, Ed? My wife keeps telling me that age and experience are far sexier, and more satisfying than raw energy."

"Jack!" Ed was glad she'd taken him out of the guys' hearing range.

He patted her arm. "I didn't know if it would be okay, baby. But it will be. Your friends need to take that stuff out of here. It was meant. They'll be okay, you'll be okay. Actually, you're going to be more than okay by Tuesday morning." His eyes were dancing, and his mouth was twitching with humor. "You blush real nice, Ed baby."

"I don't think six grand is going to cover this, Jack." Ed pushed his hand off her arm. Glimpsing the future was scarier then she'd imagined, also more exhilarating. "You're going to sign a contract for next year, too."

She walked back to Byers, and nodded. "I think you should take it."

"All right." Byers looked around at his friends. Langly nodded. Frohike nodded. Jimmy grinned a big, happy smile.

"I'll be here first thing in the morning." Mad Jack took hold of Byers' shoulder, and steered him away toward the showroom. Langly and Jimmy followed.

Frohike stayed back. Ed's pulse started to pick up speed.

"Can we take some time next week, sit and talk again? I'd like to buy you dinner this time," Frohike said.

"That would be great." He'd been shaken by Sven, Ed knew. From the cocky grin on his face, he'd gotten over it.

"Friday night?"

"Yes." With a feeling of disappointment, Ed wondered just what Tuesday Mad Jack had been talking about. That's the trouble with predictions, she thought, trying to maintain a casual exterior. You wake up in the morning looking for sun, and it's hailing on your tulips.


	9. Chapter 9

**SUNDAY, THE GARAGE OF JIMMY BOND - 10:30 A.M.**

The moving project had gone without a hitch.

Frohike pulled the rental truck away from Jimmy's garage door, and turned off the motor. As he hopped down out of the cab he could hear Jimmy and Langly wrangling over possession of the crowbar.

"Let Jimmy do it," Byers said. "You'll get blisters again, Langly."

"Okay, but hurry up, man." Langly surrendered the implement of destruction, and took a step back as Jimmy wedged the bar under a board and torqued on it. With a screech of reluctant nails, the side panel of the crate slowly gave way under Jimmy's strong hands.

"It looks like a load of junk." Frohike stepped up for a closer inspection. "What a mess."

"Should we?" Byers asked, tentatively.

Langly reached in to haul out an armful of cabling. "Ethernet stuff. Old scuzzy cables. Co-ax cable. It _is >/i> a load of junk, man."_

"Guys?" Jimmy pulled out a small cardboard box and shook it.

"What've you got?" Langly dropped the cabling and wrinkled his nose. "Diskettes to install RAM doubler?"

"Little pills. Little beige pills," Jimmy said, poking at them with his finger.

"Let me see those." Frohike grabbed the box. "No marks on them. We'll have to get them analyzed. I've never seen anything similar."

"There are two more boxes like that," Byers said, moving a cracked, dusty monitor out of the way. "And -- Langly? What do you think this is?"

"Good question." Langly took the black rectangle from Byers. He turned it over and over. "USB, Firewire, phone, and power inputs -- but I don't see any way to get into the thing. I'm not sure how to crack it open."

"There has to be a way to get inside." Frohike took the box and walked into the daylight. He went through the same process Langly had. There were no seams. No screws. The hard enamel finish of the box was only broken by the oval and circular ports. "How'd they put this together?" he wondered aloud.

"This is what Mad Jack wanted us to have," Byers said.

"Cool! This is so cool!" Jimmy was putting something on his head that looked like a cross between shooting range ear protectors and night vision goggles. "Can I have this? I think it's broken. I can't see anything."

"Give me that." Langly grabbed the device off Jimmy's head. "Let's take this stuff back to the office. I've got an idea."

Frohike let Langly sort out the pieces he wanted, and watched as Byers and Jimmy loaded them into the back of the truck. He was tired. He'd spent the night writing his column and reluctantly doing more research on genetically altered seed. He hadn't learned his lesson from the salmonella series they'd done, back in the mid-90s. He still couldn't eat hot dogs after exposing some of the meat industry's more egregious practices.

Resentfully he wondered how many more pleasures of the table would disappear from his life purely because of the pursuit of knowledge. It was like Eve and that apple, Frohike thought. After the first bite she'd realized what the little hole meant. No wonder she'd handed it to Adam.

Jimmy was tossing leftover junk back into the crate.

"We done here?" Frohike asked. "I want to get this truck back, and grab some shut-eye."

Byers slammed the rear door. "Jimmy and I can do that," he said. "We'll drop you and Langly off at the office first. You look tired."

"Thanks." Frohike crossed around to the passenger side, feeling suddenly old, creaky and cranky. "Then you can drive. Langly can ride with Jimmy."

 

 **LGHQ - SUNDAY, 6 P.M.**

"Want another one?"

Jimmy was standing near the stove, holding a flipper, obviously hoping Byers would agree to let him make another grilled cheese sandwich.

"No thanks, Jimmy. I'm full." The air was thick with the smell of vulcanized margarine and bread, but the sandwiches hadn't been bad. Byers made a mental note that Jimmy seemed to be mostly harmless in the kitchen.

"Yeah, me too." Jimmy's voice was disappointed, but he shrugged, grinned, and came to join Byers at the table. "Should we check on Langly?"

"Not just yet."

Langly was off in his own world. He'd been gone with the bus when Byers and Jimmy got back to the office after returning the rental truck. He'd shown up just after 1:00 with his arms, and the back of the bus, full of computer equipment. They'd helped him unload and set up in a corner of the workroom. Byers hadn't taken offense at Langly's subsequent instruction to "get lost." He knew the best thing he could do was take Jimmy out of the way. They had other projects to address.

Noises came from the direction of the bathroom, and Byers glanced at his watch. That would be Frohike. He'd probably shower and . . .

Frohike's appearance in the kitchen, unshowered, unshaven and still looking like he could use a good night's sleep, surprised Byers considerably. His friend had been taking extra pains to stay presentable during the last week. The power of Ed, Byers thought.

"Frohike! Want me to make you a grilled cheese?" Jimmy was gleeful at having a new customer.

"No thanks." Frohike stumped over to the coffee pot, poured himself a cup, then dumped a couple tablespoons of sugar into the thick, acridly black beverage. "Langly still working?"

"Yes," Byers said. He saw Frohike's mouth twist as he took the first sip of coffee, and decided against inquiring after his state of health. "He went out and got a Mac. He hasn't said anything yet. Jimmy and I took one of those pills over to Butch."

"Butch!" Frohike shook his head. "I hate using that guy. He's not 100% reliable."

"He's the best we've got right now." Butch worked for a private lab, and required small tokens of appreciation that bore pictures of dead presidents. "Doggett would probably have tried to do it for us, but he's got so many problems of his own . . ."

"Yeah. Good call. I just hate using Butch." Frohike sighed, a sound that seemed to start at his toes, wind tunnel through his body and exit with theatrical projection. "When did he think he could have the results?"

"You know Butch. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the next day. We don't appreciate him as much as he appreciates himself."

Frohike translated easily, although Jimmy's mouth was moving. It meant petty cash was nearly empty again, something they didn't talk plainly about in front of Jimmy.

"I'm going to see how Langly's doing."

Langly was sitting with his head thrown back, eyes closed, holding the visor headset in his lap. Frohike whistled when he saw the setup arrayed around the black box.

"Where'd you steal this stuff, Langly?"

It had bothered Byers, too. The shiny new 733 MHz Mac with its 22 inch LCD display.

"Kimmie." Langly opened an eye and looked at them. "He uses it to make videos. He's visiting his grandma."

"He's gonna kill you. You break it, you'll buy it, Langly. If we have to replace this stuff, we can kiss Mad Jack's six grand goodbye," Frohike said.

"I know, I know," Langly moaned. "I needed an independent system, and I think the box was built to run off a Mac. I also think I'm going to throw up," he added.

"What's wrong?" Byers took Langly's complaint seriously. There'd been too many recent instances of Langly's whining ending in upchuckage.

"I got the thing wired into the Mac. I put on the goggles to see where that would take me. They fit into the USB port. I got some kind of very weird, very faint display. Then I slipped in one of the CDs."

They all stared at the screen. It was showing a lush, tropical lagoon. A coconut tree was shading the sugar sand, and rhythmic breakers advanced and retreated like the froth on a milk shake.

"Yeah?" Frohike prompted.

"I get a ghost image of that now, too. But I had to take off the goggles. I got a monster headache. My eyes feel like they've got knives poking into them."

"Let me see!" Jimmy made a grab for the goggles.

"NO!" Byers heard two other voices echo his protest.

"You ever see Videodrome, Jimmy?" Frohike asked.

"Thanks, man." Langly grimaced. "Frohike's right. Minimize the exposure."

"What's Videodrome?" Jimmy asked, frowning. "Guys?"

Byers sighed. He'd been explaining a lot of things to Jimmy lately. "In case there's something about that device that affects Langly's sense of reality, or causes mental instability, well, we don't want anyone else exposed until we know more about the box."

"Makes sense," Jimmy said wisely. "You're a brave guy, Langly. How will we know if his brain's melted?"

"Good question," Frohike said. He turned and walked away from the workstations and disappeared toward the kitchen.

"What's wrong with him?" Langly asked, squinting at Byers.

"I'm not sure," Byers said. While the issues Frohike was wrestling with might seem obvious to him, he was going to draw the line at explaining to Langly and Jimmy how love sometimes affected more mature men. "Take a break, Langly. Shut that thing down. It makes me nervous."

"I'm going to take some Tylenol and check my e-mail." Langly began pulling wires and powering down the Mac.

"It's been a full day for you," Byers gently suggested to Jimmy. "You've been a great help. If you want to take off now --?"

"No way! I've got nothing going tonight. We could watch some TV."

It was worse than having a little brother tagging along. "Maybe Frohike will play poker with us," Byers compromised. That would keep both Frohike and Jimmy busy for a while. It was Sunday night, which meant there was nothing good on TV. They worked too much as it was. Byers couldn't remember the last time they'd played poker together. He could hear the faint sound of either music or the TV in the distance, so Frohike wasn't doing anything important. "Come on."

"Okay." Jimmy agreed. "What's Langly's computer doing, anyway?"

Byers backtracked. The black screen and red words were back. "I saw this a couple of days ago. Langly?"

"Crap. That's impossible." Langly slid into his chair and began tapping keys. "Some wiseass sent me a bit-o-java last month. I thought I'd dumped it."

"It's asking for help," Jimmy said, pointing at the line of letters. "Get.Me.Out.Help." He looked at Byers.

"It's a prank, Jimmy." Langly's screen cleared. "If I was to name a suspect, it'd be Kimmie."

Jimmy looked disappointed. "A call for help, Byers. Someone held against their will, in distress."

"With access to a computer, but not enough intelligence to include who they are, and where they're being held?" Byers pointed out. "Even a monkey managed to include that much. If it were real --"

"Oh man!" Langly banged his palm against his head. "This can't be real."

He sounded like he was going to cry. "What is it? Your computer?" Byers asked in alarm.

"No, man. Joey Ramone. He's dead." Langly's fingers clutched the keyboard. "I can't believe this."

"I'm sorry, Langly."

The distant sound of music grew louder. Byers felt the skin on the back of his neck prickle. "Um, Langly?"

"Yeah." Langly let go of the keyboard, and wiped quickly at his eyes. "I hear it."

"What?" Jimmy's head bobbed back and forth between them. "What?"

From the direction of their tiny living area Frohike's voice rose clearly above the background music.

"I-I-I want to rock your gypsy soul-oul-oul . . . just like way back in the days of ol-ol-old . . . then mag-ni-fi-cent-ly we will flo-o-oat . . . into the mystic."

"Shit." Byers looked at Langly.

"He's playing vinyl," Byers heard Langly say the words at the same moment he did.

Poker would have to wait.


	10. Chapter 10

**LGHQ, SUNDAY - 8 P.M.**

When the dark came for Byers, it was as if sun and moon were in eclipse, and earth turned into a void of pointless, repetitive activity that anger, laughter, sorrow or joy did not touch.

His sense of touch, taste and smell seemed blunt and dull. Even his friends seemed to lose substance, and waver in and out of his day like apparitions. The dark liked to coil deep in his gut, radiating cold despairing need, like some injured, slowly starving animal gone to den.

These depressions had been few, and far between, but serious enough that Byers knew his friends watched with half-an-eye for signs of resurgence.

Langly buried himself in gaming and concerts when he needed to howl at the moon. He'd come home with eyes like obsidian quarters behind his lenses, reeking of the scent of human bodies, smoke and sweat, or he'd squat in front of his computer for hours without speaking, driven to proving himself in some outrageous hack.

When the dark came for Frohike, it wore bell-bottoms and a fringed vest, and carried -- at the very least -- a stack of records and a bottle of scotch.

Simultaneous depressions had been rare during the years they'd lived together, although spiritual malaise was a frequent weekend party host. Byers usual role was that of designated driver, or sympathetic distributor of morning juice, coffee and pain relievers.

With the four of them crammed into the living room, Jimmy on the couch next to him, Frohike in the recliner, Langly sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, Byers wondered if _The Night of Joey Ramone's Wake_ was going to occupy a special place in Lone Gunman mythology.

They'd listened to everything from Aretha to Dylan, (Jimmy singing a mean _Mr. Tambourine Man_ ), interspersed with some of Langly's favorite Ramones tunes. During a break between songs, Langly had given them the long, wandering version of the first Ramones concert he'd ever attended. Byers had heard him speak of it before, but tonight Langly included enough previously unheard details to render it an almost new story.

Jimmy had left at one point, and returned with popcorn. It was such a considerate act that Byers almost forgave him for everything inept he'd done in the filing cabinets, until he pulled the Broadway Cast version of _Jesus Christ Superstar_ out of the record stack.

Frohike had been drinking scotch when they joined him, a freshly cracked bottle that slowly receded as the music changed. Jimmy was helping with the scotch, and Byers had accepted a small glass. Langly's poison was a quarter-bottle of tequila that no one else seemed interested in, possibly because there were three worms in the bottom instead of the traditional one.

When the last strains of the musical faded, and the record arm click-swoosh returned to its resting place, Byers felt quiet drop over them like a fleecy blanket. They sat relaxed, buzzed, and comfortable with each other.

"I was in Ohio when Kent State went down," Frohike said, breaking the quiet. He stared into his glass of scotch, swirling the golden liquor around gently. "Visiting friends at Antioch College."

"Four dead in O-hi-o," Jimmy said, nodding.

Everyone looked at him. Byers wondered, not for the first time, how the mnemonic links in Jimmy's brain had been forged.

"Yeah." Frohike emptied half his glass. "We were sitting in this nice park, toking and rapping --"

"I've never heard rap from the 70s," Jimmy said, frowning. "Are there any golden oldies you'd recommend?"

"They were talking, Jimmy." Byers wondered if Jimmy would notice if his scotch was replaced with ginger ale. They had no idea of Jimmy's tolerance for liquor, and with his personality it might be too late when it became apparent he'd had one too many. Byers was already feeling light headed and glowy, but he knew his own limit and rarely exceeded it.

"Somebody had a portable radio. We were listening to an AM station, maybe the college station, I don't remember. They broke in with the news. National Guardsmen had fired on protesters at Kent State. They had dead." Frohike's eyes were unfocused, staring inward at something Byers never wanted to see.

"They say kids have no concept of mortality, that's why they do stupid, risky things. I don't know about kids today, but we knew about mortality. We knew about the empty spaces in church pews, around dinner tables, in first-string football lineups. There wasn't one of us sitting there that day who hadn't lost family, friend or acquaintance in a war no one could explain to us. There wasn't one of us sitting there that day who didn't wonder which road was in his future: job, home and family, or flag draped coffin."

Frohike poured himself more scotch. "It's ironic. When anyone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I'd say _a journalist_. I think that day in May was the reason I abandoned writing for such a long time. Byers, here," Frohike reached over and poured more scotch into his glass in spite of Byers demure, "he believes in a Golden Age of Bureaucracy, although he might deny it. He thinks that in a perfect world government is good and kind, dedicated to ensuring all citizens the quality of life they deserve in an enlightened country like the United States of America."

"I believe that," Jimmy said, holding out his glass, and nearly tipping off the couch.

"I don't know if you get this, Jimmy," Langly said from his position on the floor, which was now horizontal. "You're gullible. That whole blind football thing --"

"It was a good idea!" Jimmy looked hurt.

"At a formative age I was shown that our government could order its peace keepers into a situation where they would make the choice to gun down its citizens in cold blood, and not be punished. What was the difference between us and our enemies? Did our highest elected officials rush in to prosecute the men responsible for this crime?" Frohike shook his head. "Nixon despised protesters. Hoover thought they were scum and deserved to die. He used his position to slant news coverage of the massacre. Not a single guardsman -- or protester -- did jail time over the incident. Thirteen shot. Four dead."

He hadn't realized he was drinking it, but his glass was empty. Byers felt his head spin, and leaned back against Jimmy. "I'm so sorry, Frohike," he heard himself say.

"Yeah. Me too. I went into electronics instead of writing, for a time. I got older, and didn't go down either of those roads we thought led from the fork of childhood. Look at me -- I'm not dead yet. But I'm a 52-year-old man living in a basement with two other lonely men."

"Man. I love you guys! You're not ever going to be lonely again!" Jimmy's head dropped back on Byer's shoulder.

"Jimmy . . . Jimmy . . ." Byers shook him. Jimmy only sank deeper, more bonelessly, into the corner of the sofa.

"Lightweight," Langly said, looking up at the ceiling. "How many people are going to know my name when I'm gone? I coulda gone dotcom, I coulda given Gates a run for his money. A monkey could design better software."

"You make it sound like you can't still accomplish those things, Langly. If that's what you want -- then do it. Everyone in this room knows you could make your name an icon if you put your mind to it," Byers said.

"Everyone awake knows it," Frohike said, laughing at them.

Byers was relieved to see the balance back in Frohike's eyes. Sometimes it seemed like the man could drink himself sober and sane.

"What we're doing, it's worthwhile." Byers carefully scooched away from Jimmy. "You returned to writing, Frohike, and every week we do our part to make sure abuses by people with power aren't overlooked. You help with that, Langly. I know that sometimes it doesn't seem like we make a difference."

"Hah!" Langly snorted. "Try never, FCC."

"But we do," Byers said, with great dignity. He tried standing up, and was pleasantly surprised to find his sense of balance intact. "I have to go to bed now. Please throw a blanket over Jimmy."


	11. Chapter 11

**LGHQ, MONDAY 8 A.M.**

The distant sound of a ringing phone, and the buzz of their door alarm, brought Frohike disagreeably awake. He rolled to the edge of his bed, sat up slowly, and tried to scrape the fur off his tongue by rubbing it against his teeth. He badly wanted a cool drink of juice or water.

Scrounging through his laundry for a clean shirt, jeans, boxers and socks, Frohike woke enough to wonder who was dropping in so early on a Monday. Ed's name had frightening potential. Peering down the hallway to make sure it was clear, Frohike hurried to the bathroom. It was empty, but the damp shower curtain seemed to indicate that at least Byers was probably keeping to his normal schedule.

Hot water, lots of hot water felt good this morning. By the time he'd showered, shaved and dressed, Frohike was wide awake and hungry. Eggs -- sunnyside up -- and toast. That sounded great.

A lumpage still occupied their couch. Frohike decided to leave the kid in peace, and went into the kitchen. Byers had indeed been up and about. Fresh coffee waited, and pitchers of tomato juice and acid-free orange juice. Frohike felt a sudden upswelling of affection for all of his friends. He really was a lucky man. He poured himself a cup of coffee, then followed the sound of voices into the workroom.

Their visitor surprised Frohike. Butch had always phoned in results, never came in person. The barrel-chested, bald lab tech was looming over Byers.

 _Something going on here,_ Frohike thought, reading the body language. He set his coffee on Byers' desk, just in case he needed both hands free.

"Back off, dough boy," Frohike touched Byers' arm, and moved him aside. "To what do we owe the dubious pleasure of your presence, Butch?"

"Hey! Byers came to me, Paul Williams. You wanna take off, rejoin the rest of the Lullaby League, and leave the grownups to do business?"

Byers made a strangled noise. "I can deal with this, Frohike."

"Did he do the work you paid him for?" Frohike asked, without moving.

"Yes. And Butch has, very thoughtfully, brought the test results to us this morning," Byers said stiltedly. "Very thoughtfully."

"You said ASAP, Byers. I'm a man who takes pride in delivering the goods. ASAP you wanted, ASAP you got." Butch hooked his thumbs over his massive leather belt.

"So why are you still here?" Frohike asked. "I know Byers doesn't understand most of the jokes you like to tell, so why are you still here?"

"I had a few questions of my own." Butch leaned forward. "Wondered where you got the sample. Wondered whether there might be a place to find more of it."

"Sorry. That was all we had." Frohike shook his head and pointed toward the door. "Vamoose."

Butch shrugged. "Okay, but don't come to me next time."

"Make a note, Byers." Frohike followed Butch to the door, locked everything behind him, and watched the monitor until Butch was gone.

"What was that about?" He found Byers sitting at his desk, sipping a cup of coffee. His eyes looked smudged, but his grooming and apparel were in order. "You feel okay this morning?"

"I'll live." Byers managed a wan smile. He offered Frohike a slip of paper. "Those pills are basically muscle relaxants, combined with a narcotic and an herbal cocktail that Butch wasn't too specific about."

"Interesting." Frohike looked at the list. "Addictive."

"If you took enough of them, yes. Butch thought the dose he tested would send a 200-lb. man to la-la land for a good six hours," Byers said.

"Okay. Who was on the phone?"

"The press." Byers rubbed his eyes. "They've got a web down and wanted to know if we could print a couple of hours early this week. They're rearranging jobs."

"I don't see a problem with that." Frohike retrieved his coffee. "I'm going to fry eggs. Want some?"

Byers shuddered. "No thank you."

"Toast?" Frohike touched Byers' shoulder, briefly. "You could manage toast."

"All right. But I'll stay in here while you cook."

"Yeah." Frohike paused. "You know how much I admire you, Byers. You get your head wedged up your ass sometimes, but you're a role model for us all. And I value your friendship. Thanks."

He'd felt uncomfortable saying it, but it was something that needed to be said. Byers' drooping eyes were wide open by the time Frohike finished, and he sat up straighter in front of his desk.

"That means a lot, Frohike."

"Yeah, yeah. Don't get sloppy on me."

Frohike whistled while he fried the eggs and made toast. He brought Byers a plate and the obligatory napkin, then sat down to eat.

"I'll just make myself some toast, and skip the eggs." Jimmy stood in the door, beaming at him. His eyes were a little pink, but his enthusiastic good humor seemed unmarred by the previous night's activities. "Great wake, man. What are we going to do today?"

 

**LGHQ - MONDAY, 5:00 P.M.**

Byers let her into the office. His suit coat was missing, and his sleeves were rolled up, but his tie was still tight and centered. Ed thought his face looked tired.

"Rough day?" Ed asked. "Me too."

"We're working on the contents of Mad Jack's crate," Byers said, over his shoulder. "Do you want to see?"

"Yes." Ed followed him past the workstations to the dim farback of their cluttered space. It was a strange sight, Langly, Jimmy and Frohike hanging over a huge monitor that showed a mammoth waterfall raining prismatic spray over an emerald green lagoon. Langly and Frohike were arguing, filling the air with arm waving and profanity. Jimmy was wearing sunglasses, and appeared to be doing a Ray Charles impression.

"I'm telling you, whoever built it planned to be hardwired into the goggles," Langly said. "You saw the port, just under the earflap. What do _you_ think goes there?"

"Say you're right. There's no way we can duplicate that. Although drilling a hole in your skull . . . Ed!" Frohike stopped shaking his fist at Langly and stepped away from the tight group. "We're pretty sure it's some kind of virtual reality gizmo, but Blondie's having a rough time finding the interface."

"Up yours," Langly snarled. "I'm risking _my_ melon. All you're doing is criticizing."

"It gives him a headache," Byers explained in a soft voice, next to her ear. "We haven't got a clue about how it works with a user, but something happens when he wears the headset."

"Nothing useful, though." Frohike had heard Byers. He stood by her side, nearly touching her.

"That," Ed pointed at the black box, "was in the crate? Why would Mad Jack be scared of a game?"

"Whatever it is, it's not a game," Frohike said.

"You said virtual reality?" Ed felt too conscious of the fact she only had to move an inch and she would be touching his arm.

"It's a guess," Byers said. "The box appears to have been encased in ceramic, similar to the type of ceramic they use for space shuttle tiles. How they could have applied it without leaving a seam, and without damaging the internal machinery, we don't have a clue."

"We've got 20 CDs of background scenery. Langly thinks if he could access the interface, those goggles would put the wearer smack dab in the middle of whatever you see on the monitor. Unfortunately it's starting to look like whoever designed this gear had a permanent port stuck in his own head." Frohike leaned over and ejected the CD. The waterfall disappeared.

"That's possible?" Ed saw Langly shrug. She opened her briefcase and pulled out a handful of papers. "John, here's the contract Mad Jack signed for next year. Here's your check, and here's something he asked me to give you, along with his thanks."

Byers set the contract and check aside, and opened the folded note. "Gillian M'biswo," he said. "Where have I heard that name?"

"She died two months ago in Paris," Frohike said. "I remember because six people attending an Ethics of Cloning Convention croaked from eating contaminated seafood. M'biswo was originally from Cote'd Ivorie, but went to school in the states. I could find out more about her."

"Mad Jack didn't say where he got the name, or why he wanted us to have it?" Byers asked hopefully.

"Sorry."

Langly untangled himself from the mass of cables. "I want to go out for Chinese. My head is going to explode."

"Jimmy will drive you," Byers said. "I don't want you off by yourself right now."

"Frohike can go with me," Langly protested.

"Not tonight, Frohike can't. Sorry buddy," Frohike said. He touched Ed's arm. "Let's go sit down. You can tell me how your first day on the job went."

They left the squabbling behind, although choice bits of name-calling rose and fell above the masking hum of the workstations.

"You're turning out to be a good employee," Frohike said. He smiled at her as he sat down in a chair directly across from her at the kitchen table. "You've already paid for the next six press bills."

"With my commission deducted?" Ed smiled back. He was such a cutie. It struck her that he looked as tired as Byers. She had a quick fantasy of holding his head in her lap, stroking his hair and massaging his shoulders. The resulting hot flash startled her. "You haven't slept all day?"

"No. My schedule got screwed up. We had a little wake last night."

Ed waited for an explanation. He was staring at her, thinking hard about something. _Come on, Melvin. All you have to do is open your mouth._ She reached for his hand across the table. "Somebody died?"

"Joey Ramone. It was a guy thing," Frohike said. His fingers covered hers, and began to stroke the skin on her wrist. "I was thinking, it's a long time until Friday."

Damn straight, Melvin. "You're tired, I've had a tough day being rejected by everyone but Mad Jack. Would you like to come back to my house instead of going out? I've got fresh vegetables, everything we'd need to make a stir-fry." She saw him hesitate, mouth the worm then spit it out.

"I don't know."

"Sven's not going to be there," she said. "He's spending the night with friends."

Hooked and landed.

Frohike pushed away from the table. "I'll tell Byers I'm going, and be right with you."


	12. Chapter 12

**EDWINA NORTON'S HOME, MONDAY - 6:30 P.M.**

It was deja vu all over again, Frohike thought, listening to Marrakesh Express rattle through Cherry's dashboard. He drove carefully, conscious of Cherry's well-being, painfully conscious of Ed's closeness.

"I've been wondering why you changed your mind about us having a relationship. I've been wondering about Sven," Frohike said, trying not to let his voice reveal the importance of these wonderings.

"Sven and I share the house now. That's all. We haven't shared a bed since I met you, Melvin." Ed pushed at her hair nervously. "Fortunately, Sven understands. I'm not sure I do. I'm not usually thoughtless or impetuous about romance." She touched his hand where it rested on the wheel. "When I'm with you, I feel young . . . and I feel old . . . and I feel ageless. The chemistry is remarkable."

Frohike could feel his heart thudding against his ribs. It was the conclusion he'd reached last night while drinking and thinking. She made him feel ageless.

The drive seemed longer than usual. The CD finished by the time Frohike pulled the VW into Ed's garage. He followed her into the house, admiring her quick, long-legged stride, and the way the top three buttons of her blouse had come undone since leaving the office.

Ed closed the front door behind them and turned the locks. "How hungry are you, Melvin?"

The stupidity of the question left him speechless. She dropped her brief case and jacket into a pile and stepped into his arms.

Kissing her was better then some of the sex he'd had, Frohike thought. When Ed's mouth left his, Frohike opened his eyes and tried to find enough breath to protest. She put her fingers on his lips, took his hand, and led him up the stairs.

Her bedroom was simple, warm looking. Ed shut the door, then stood close laying her head on his chest. "I don't talk a lot during, but I'm noisy," she said, with a smothered laugh.

"Perhaps, a demonstration?" Frohike lifted her chin so he could meet her eyes. "You have to know how much I want you."

She began unbuttoning her blouse. "It's mutual." Her bra followed. She reached for his hands and slid them up over her breasts.

"I know there's a temptation to rush, but I want to do this very, very slowly." She unbuttoned his vest, eased it off, then started on his shirt.

"Okay," Frohike agreed, cautiously, as his shirt joined her blouse. Ed was making little circles around his earlobe with her tongue, and her hands held his hips firmly against her pelvis. His entire body was begging him to throw her on the bed and quit wasting time. "But if the record jumps from 33 to 45 all of a sudden . . ."

Ed's mouth moved over his neck, down to his nipples. "That will be all right, too." Her fingers found his zipper, and Frohike closed his eyes and sighed.

"Trust me, Melvin," she said, "I'll still be singing along. Just one thing."

"Umm?" Anything. He'd die trying.

"Don't take off your gloves."


	13. Chapter 13

**LGHQ, MONDAY - 11:45 P.M.**

To compensate for their less than productive day, they'd managed to create the impression that an army of journalists had been hard at work. Byers wandered through the workroom, picking up bits of trash and straightening the contents of their desks. His legs felt leaden, and he yawned continuously. His bed and pillow were calling his name with the siren promise of sleep.

Jimmy had finally gone home, after he'd spilled juice on his pants and no one had offered him a replacement garment. He'd been goofy and exhausted, but Byers could see the kid was happy to the core. It was both embarrassing and endearing to realize how Jimmy felt about them.

Except for the occasionally muttered syllable, Langly had been silent since they'd left for the restaurant. He'd demanded that Byers leave Jimmy to watch the office, a compromise that seemed to work for Jimmy. He'd let Byers order the food, and eaten with mechanical rapidity. When the food was gone, Byers sat with him for another half hour while Langly lay back against the restaurant booth with his eyes closed and drank cup after cup of tea.

Byers had watched Langly solve other problems in this fashion, using nothing but his knowledge of the way things worked, and his uncanny perception of how they might be made to work. He often wished his own expertise with mankind's latest greatest tools could have an element of Langly's elegant, intuitive style. The pep talk Byers had given during the wake was heartfelt. Langly's potential to produce some invention or piece of software with lucrative commercial applications was vast and untapped.

When they returned to the office, Langly passed his computer without even checking his e-mail, and started in on the headset. He'd surfaced enough to shout "Hallelujah!" as Jimmy left, then clammed up again.

"Are you nearly done for the night?" Byers knew he'd reached the end of his stamina, his eyes felt raw. He turned off the spot lighting near his desk, then Frohike's.

"I'm zoned." Langly coiled the headset cable into neat loops, then shut down the black box set up, going so far as to pull the power cords out of their sockets. "I need to look at this fresh, when my eyes can focus and they aren't playing the anvil chorus in my noggin."

"Thank goodness. Everything's shut down."   
"Frohike's gone for the night?" Langly slanted a look at Byers through his curtain of hair. "Lucky stiff. Ed's okay. Funny the way he goes for redheads."

"Redhead? Edwina's a redhead?" Byers saw Langly's grin, and knew it was true. "She warned you about sharing information about her."

"You won't rat me." Langly followed him away from the computers. "I'd give a twenty to see his face when he finds out."

"Voyeur." Byers shook his head, trying to prevent the hazy mental picture from forming. "We've got newspaper work to do tomorrow. We're running behind, and we've got to be at the press two hours earlier than usual."

Langly mumbled something, then was gone.

Somehow he managed one last check of the security systems, brushed his teeth with his eyes closed, and found the hangers for his suit by feel alone. The cool flannel of his pajamas felt wonderful against his skin. Sandwiched between crisp cotton sheets, he should have been asleep in seconds. Instead Byers tossed, his mind refusing to let go of the day's events.

Byers didn't begrudge Frohike's obvious happiness and good fortune, but selfishly he wished that the older man was in his usual spot tonight, in front of his computer, watching over the office and occupants while they slept. It would be just like Langly to go back into the workroom alone, and Byers wasn't comfortable with an unchaperoned Langly playing with that box. Langly had that expression in his eyes, that set to his jaw, that told Byers the cracking of the black box had gone from an exercise in problem-solving to personal quest.

Yes, that was it -- a quest.

Byers thoughts began to lose focus as his body powered down and his mind followed. People looked at Langly, at his long hair, geeky glasses and gaudy tees, and mistakenly pegged him as a science nerd who'd never grown out of one of the vague counterculture phases. His pursuit of gaming and music seemed to give credence this opinion. Byers knew better.

Langly's hair, for instance. The hacker didn't wear it long because he was lazy, or because his sense of fashion was stuck in the past. Langly didn't even usually confine his hair in a fashionable ponytail unless he was undercover. No, the hair was a mirror into Langly's soul, a clue pointing the way to Langly's interior self-image.

There was a renaissance quality about Langly that could have placed him in historical context with DaVinci, Galileo, Ben Franklin, or maybe Cousteau, although his explorations and inventions were in a more fantastic realm, a place where mathematics, logic, imagination and Rube Goldstein intersected.

It was too easy to imagine Langly wearing an alchemist's robes, meditating over arcane formulae in his pursuit of transubstantiation. Byers could see him leaning out the castle window to cob apples at the noisy herd kids. _Shut the eff up! I'm working here!_

... or Ringo of Langly, on horseback, haunting the countryside like Robin Hood, dedicated to robbing the corrupt government so he could give back to the poor. _Surrender your money belt, fat boy!_

... or Sir Langly on horseback, riding to the rescue of some fair maiden being held captive by aliens masquerading as knights, with the entire cast of Monty Python singing backup. _When danger reared its ugly head, Sir Langly turned his tail . . ._

The images were whimsical, dreamlike. Part of Byers knew that if he were fully awake, they would never have surfaced. Darkness gobbled Byers' final fantasy with a little burp of appreciation.

 

 **EDWINA NORTON'S HOME, TUESDAY - 3 A.M.**

Frohike's sleep cycle had been seriously disturbed.

What the wake had started, trying to sleep in a new bed at an hour he was usually wide awake -- with another body occupying part of the space -- finished. He'd squirmed and turned, and finally quietly left the bedroom and wandered downstairs at 2:30 to see if he could find something to read. Ed had been curled in a tangled ball of blankets with a dreaming smile on her face, and although he'd considered waking her up, Frohike had decided to let her sleep since she was doing it so well.

There was a signed copy of _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_ in the bookcases. Frohike took the book and made himself comfortable on the couch, turning on an end lamp. He held the book open to the first chapter for several minutes without reading.

Langly was wildly talented, Frohike didn't mind admitting since the kid was nowhere around, and he didn't have to say it out loud. He wondered if they'd made any progress on the box, or if they'd all called it a night. Something had been nagging at him since he'd heard the name Gillian M'biswo. His fingers were itching to go on-line and do some investigating.

Tomorrow would be soon enough to do research, he scolded himself. If Ed woke up in the morning and told him she'd made a mistake, at least he'd have this one amazing night.

Not that he thought for one second they would have only one night. Sex with Ed was like a carnival ride that you'd never been on before, Frohike thought, grinning down at the unread book. When the ride ended you were surprised, breathless, dizzy and nearly hoarse. You were also headed back to the gate to buy another ticket, without any fear that the ticket-taker would be making snide cracks about complying with the height requirement.

"Melvin?" Ed came into the livingroom. She was wearing a pink chenille bathrobe the same color as her hair. Frohike had already decided he would ask her about the hair if there was a _later_ in their relationship. "Are you okay?"

"You could say that." He closed the book. "I'm usually awake this time of night."

She crawled onto his lap, and spread the robe over them like a blanket. "Do you want to talk?"

Of the choices available, talking seemed like a good second. Ed fit on his lap perfectly, her head tucked just under his chin, without too much of her spilling over in any direction. Frohike could recall lusting after tall, leggy babes in the past. None of them would have fit on his lap perfectly.

"I'm just not used to sleeping with someone else," he said, stroking the skin on the small of her back.

"And you were wondering about the office, and how far Langly and Byers have gotten with the box," Ed said. "I'll get dressed and drive you back."

"No. You don't have to do that. I can wait until morning." Frohike tried to sound decisive. What man in his right mind wouldn't want to wake up with Ed in the morning? He felt her shoulders shaking. "Ed?"

She was laughing, holding her hand over her mouth. "Melvin." She leaned in for one of her long, slow kisses, and thoughts of Langly, Byers and the box dissolved.

"I adore you, Melvin Frohike. Let's go upstairs and get dressed."

Frohike let her pull him off the couch. "Are you sure? We could --"

"Lots of time for that." Ed patted his butt as they rounded the landing. "I don't want to play house with you. I don't want you to change who you are, and what you do. You've got something on your mind and want to go to work."

The streets were quiet and deserted. Ed kept her hand on his thigh while they drove, and Frohike covered her fingers with his own. Before she let him out in the alley, she kissed him, quickly for her.

"Do you mind if I check in tomorrow? I don't want to crowd you."

"That's like the second stupid thing you've said in the last 24 hours," Frohike said. " _I_ adore _you_. In spite of your recent stupid-remark track record, your intelligence -- and taste in men -- is unquestionable. You're welcome to move into my bedroom, if you want. Visits certainly pose no problem."

She smiled, with a sultry, considering look that nearly made him climb back into the car and do some experimenting with the spacial restrictions of VWs when measured against two bodies.

"Shut the door. I still need a few hours of sleep," Ed laughed.

He shut the door, watched Cherry's lights disappear around the corner, then ran downstairs, whistling a bit of Van Morrison, feeling like he'd just been given new sneakers.


	14. Chapter 14

**LGHQ - TUESDAY, 7:00 A.M.**

"Thanks for making the coffee." Byers stood a few feet from Frohike's workstation, trying to get a good look at him without being too obvious. "I didn't expect you home so early."

"Everything is cool, Byers. Ed brought me back because I wanted to work. Amazingly she suggested it. Amazingly she wasn't just trying to get rid of me." Frohike spun his chair a quarter turn away from the desk and stretched his legs in the aisle. He could tell Byers was concerned about him, and reluctant to make a blunt inquiry. "Sex was had. I have discovered a new plateau -- or perhaps I should say twin peaks -- of satisfaction."

Byers blushed, then grinned uncomfortably. "TMI, Frohike. For goodness sake, I won't be able to look her in the eye."

"Jeez, Byers. That should be my line." Frohike stood and stretched. He decided he wouldn't tease Byers any more. He felt too damn good. "To tell the truth I wondered if not spending the night was a good idea, but I hit the mother lode on M'biswo."

"I'm not sure when Langly will get up. He was pretty fried when we went to bed," Byers said. "We should wait for him."

"You didn't leave him alone with it?"

"No. He's taking it personal now." Byers looked down at Frohike's screen. "I'm glad you found Ed," he said simply.

Life sucks the worst for some people when it shines the brightest for others, Frohike thought. "Thanks, Byers. She's a sweetheart." He led the way to the kitchen. "You haven't eaten yet. How about toast?"

They were on their second pot of coffee when Langly slumped down the hallway.

"Morning, sunshine." Frohike could see circles under Langly's eyes, barely covered by his lenses. "You look like shit."

"Yeah, well I feel like shit." Langly opened the refrigerator, picked up the orange juice carton, shook it then hurled it against the wall. "Empty?!"

"You drank it," Byers said. "Don't get mad at us."

Frohike got up and put two slices of bread in the toaster, then filled a mug with coffee, three spoons of sugar, and added a splash of cream. "Sit your ass down and drink this. How's your head?"

Langly took the coffee with a surly curl of the lip. "It's still bangin'. I think the whole night was one long, bizarre dream."

Frohike buttered the toast, then reached for the peanut butter. The kid needed some protein. "I've got info to share."

"What kind of info?" Langly perked up. The sugar and caffeine were kicking in.

"Gillian M'biswo," Frohike said with satisfaction. He refilled their cups, then sat down at the table. "Her boyfriend died in Paris, too. He'd been registered at the convention under the name of John Kane. His real name was John Lee Tan."

"John Lee Tan. Where have I heard that name before?" Byers frowned. "It sounds familiar."

"Some Japanese wunderkind who wrote a paper on the integration of visual patterns in REM sleep," Langly said, around a mouthful of peanut butter. "I didn't read the paper, just read about it. He had weird theories about enhancing dream imagery."

"Bingo." Frohike leaned in toward the center of the table, talking directly to Langly. "John Lee Tan was hired by Silver Lotus Industries as soon as he graduated. SLI is heavy into R&D in extremely speculative areas. My sources say before his death they were hearing words like 'photonic crystals' and 'quantum computer.' Nobody knows if Tan was personally working in these areas." Frohike saw Langly's mind racing ahead. "M'biswo and Tan met at SLI, she worked there from '98 to '99. Then she quit and six months later she's heavy into lobbying for a ban on human cloning."

"What was her area of expertise when she worked for SLI?" Byers asked.

"Virtual reality." Frohike saw them look at him, and nodded. "Their bodies were cremated. SLI paid for both urns to be shipped back to Japan."

"That box isn't a cheap, do-it-yourself kit," Langly said. "You think those two stole it from SLI?"

"Early clues say Tan probably did." Frohike watched their faces and sipped his coffee. He was willing to bet that Langly would be into the box before the day ended.

"I've been thinking about the drugs," Byers said, tentatively. "Why they were there. What if the hardwiring came later? Butch said one pill would send a good-size man to la-la land -- or maybe to sleep, wearing the goggles?"

"That's it!" Langly nearly spilled his remaining coffee as he pushed back in his chair. "Where are those pills?"

Frohike was on his feet and around the table. He pointed at the toast and spoke very slowly. "Sit. Now. Eat the toast, Langly, or I drop you like a dirty diaper."

"You could try --" Langly bristled, leaning into the argument.

"You'll need food in your stomach. I am not cleaning you up if you puke yourself," Frohike said sternly.

"I don't like it, Frohike." Byers was disturbed. "He's already been affected in some way. We don't know what we're dealing with, or what it was meant to do."

True, Frohike thought. He looked at Langly's defiant, tired eyes, and knew the risk was going to be taken. "There was nothing on Butch's list that Langly can't cope with," he said carefully. "I'll give him half a dose. The drug won't hurt him. The box . . . well, we'll hook him up and monitor his vitals." He slapped Langly on the shoulder. "If anything starts to go wrong we'll jerk the headset."

"Sounds so simple," Byers muttered.

"Nothing about virtual reality is simple," Frohike said sourly. "Our last VR experience is not a treasured memory."

"Don't worry. If I see any goddesses, I'll run like hell," Langly said. He finished the toast and last of his coffee with a gulp. "Come on!"

"Slow down. We're doing this methodically, thoroughly, as carefully as we can." Frohike looked at Byers and saw him nod. "Byers, get the heart monitor equipment. Langly, go and take a pee -- reference the comment about puking."

Both men were gone in a blink. Frohike walked back to the box and stared at it. He didn't like putting Langly at risk on a whim. They had no compelling reason to investigate the thing. It appealed to the Holmes in all of them. By existing it offered him, and Byers, a fascinating puzzle, no more. Langly, on the other hand, was after Moriarty.

"I'm ready." Langly showed up before Byers did, nearly dancing with anticipation.

"Okay. Get the Mac started up. What's your call on the CDs?" Frohike took the stack of jewel cases and sorted through them. "Beach? Waterfall? Underground grotto?"

Langly looked over his shoulder and made a face. "Above ground, in the sun. There was one with a meadow, river and forest in the background, marked _pastoral_. We'll run that."

Frohike handed him the case. "I'll get a pill." He passed Byers on his way to the floor safe. "Get set up, and get him wired."

After Butch's visit, Frohike had decided to keep the drugs as inaccessible as possible. He eased out the camouflaging floorboard, opened the safe, and took out one pill. In the kitchen he found a clean saucer and teaspoon. Frohike crushed the pill into powder, carefully pushed a little less than half of the power into a glass, and rinsed the rest of the drug down the drain. He didn't think the drug would be a problem for Langly's system, but Frohike had meant it when he'd said _carefully_. He added a little water to the powder in the glass and stirred it with the spoon.

"Everything's ready." Byers' laptop was already reflecting the information coming from the telltales attached to Langly.

Frohike could see that Langly's heartbeat was a little fast. That was to be expected. The Mac's monitor was full of green grass and sunshine. He handed the glass to Langly, and glanced at his watch. It said 7:45 a.m. "Bottoms up."

Langly emptied the glass, making a face. "Bitter, eww." He handed the glass back to Frohike, then pulled the headset on and sat back in his chair. "I've got the usual translucent view of the CD."

"Frohike." Byers was pointing to the laptop. "Heart rate is dropping already."

The drug worked fast, Frohike thought. Langly's hands had been clenched into fists, and he'd been leaning forward. As they watched Langly seemed to loosen and relax, his hands fell open to rest on his thighs, his torso slumped. Langly's head rocked back on his shoulders and rested against the wall behind his chair.

"Oh wow. Feel pretty good." Langly's voice was dreamy. "There's a little strobe at the top of the display. I never noticed that before. It's . . . way . . . up . . . high."

"High would be right." Frohike glanced at the monitor. No problems there. "Anything else?"

"Can't type with my eyes," Langly said, as if this remark was perfectly understandable. "Enable to enter. Going to sleep now. Bye bye." His jaw relaxed, and a little snort of sound came from the back of his throat.

"He's out of it!" Byers said, alarmed.

"Calm down. His vitals are fine." Frohike tried to keep one eye on Langly, one on the monitor. "Damn, I wish we had a way to view brain activity. Can you make me a portable PET scan, Byers?"

"Tomorrow," Byers said with a wry grin, "using only recycled medical equipment, chewing gum and some of that spare plutonium."

The steady beep, beep representing Langly's heart, and the hum from the Mac were the only sounds for a while. Frohike stood near Byer's shoulder, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

"I'm getting another chair," he said, finally. "For all we know Langly's down for a three hour nap."

"You don't need to sit here," Byers said. "We could take turns watching the monitor, and one of us could do some writing. Deadline is getting close."

"We'll be okay. You can lead with the PETA interview you did last week. I've got a column, and Langly finished the piece on recycling CPUs. You've got the layouts half done. Chill."

Frohike found the closest chair and hurried back. They should be working on the paper instead of tackling something that could have waited until the next issue was out. But the ability to wait around was not on the _assets_ side of their ledger. He glanced at his watch again. Only 15 minutes had passed since Langly took the drug. If they sat here for hours and Langly woke up with nothing to show for his nap but a nap . . .

"Frohike. His heart rate's climbing."

Frohike's eyes darted between the monitor and Langly's still relaxed body. Outwardly Langly appeared to be fast asleep.

"You watch the monitor. I'll watch Langly." Frohike took a step closer to Langly's chair. If he needed to yank the headset, he wanted to be ready.

 

 **A MEADOW OUTSIDE THE FOREST PRIMEVAL**

It hadn't been so very hard to get here, Langly thought, looking around at the waving grass. Wherever here was. Kind of disappointing, really. He could see movement around him, but he didn't get any sensation of wind against his skin, and the silence was complete. He couldn't even hear himself breathing.

The sun hung overhead without warming him. He bent to touch a meadow flower, and while it appeared to move under his fingers, there was no tactile affirmation that he'd made contact with it. This was disconcerting, and a little scary.

Langly hastily slapped his hands against his chest, reassured to find he felt solid and real, and the action had created a muffled sound. The color of his tee caught his attention. It was bright orange, with an Allman Brothers logo in the center, bearing the legend _EAT A PEACH_. It wasn't the tee he'd been wearing. If he remembered correctly, he'd given this particular t-shirt to a friend back in the 80s, and had always regretted doing so.

Curiouser and curiouser, he tried to say out loud. He felt his lips move, felt his chest strain with the effort to project. Nada.

Okay. Langly started toward the river. He could see the silver-brown line gleaming between clumps of rushes. It looked like the kind of shallow trout stream he'd waded in his youth. As he walked, a distant murmur of sound displaced the silence.

"Walk. Water." He tried the words, and found they were now weakly audible. "What's the deal?" Langly felt a drop of perspiration on his forehead. He was getting hot.

If this was VR, it was either far cruder, or light-years advanced from the VR they'd played with.

He saw her, moving across the meadow toward him, ungainly and stumbling, and for a moment couldn't place who she was. Her long blonde hair was in disarray. The black tee and jeans she wore were tattered. Langly knew he should have been petrified, but her white, wet face, and outstretched hands dulled his normal reactions. Langly had always believed it was suicidal to screw around with ghostly manifestations. Self-defense dictated you ran, and fast.

But he could hear her crying now, as if her heart was breaking. Against every ounce of better judgment he walked toward her, extending both arms, offering a safe haven.

"Esther?" he said. "Esther Nairn?"


	15. Chapter 15

**LGHQ - 8:45 A.M.**

"I'm going to call Ed."

The monitor stayed steady, but Langly's arms and legs twitched with an unsettling regular irregularity, like a dog that was chasing rabbits in its sleep.

"Use this." Byers handed Frohike his cell phone. "I hope Jimmy is sleeping late today."

"Would it bother you if Ed was here?" Frohike paused before he dialed. "I was going to ask her to call Mad Jack and make him tell her where he got M'biswo's name, and where that crate came from, then swing by."

Byers shook his head. "I don't mind. I just don't feel like answering all the questions I know Jimmy would be asking right now."

"Yeah. I get that." Frohike walked away from Byers and listened to the ring. When she answered, it surprised him how much he wanted to be talking to her face to face. "Ed? I need a favor."

"What can I do to help?"

Frohike felt himself glowing. She didn't waste time, didn't play games. He quickly explained the morning's events. "Do you think you can get Mad Jack to give you the history of the crate, and how he got M'biswo's name? It might help. Even if Langly succeeds, we will have loose ends to tie up. Like who the rightful owner of the box is, and whether we should try and return it."

"A call won't do it. I'll drive over and see him right now. The shop won't be open yet, but he'll be there," Ed said. "Langly -- he'll be okay?"

"Yes. I think so. Ed --" Even those traditional three words didn't quite cover what he was feeling, and seemed common and trite. "I miss you this morning."

He heard her make a sound, like an indrawn breath. "I miss you too, Melvin. See you soon."

She hung up, and Frohike glanced at his watch. The impact of the drug should begin decreasing soon, he judged, but there was no way to predict when Langly might wake up.

Waiting was a bitch.

 

 **THE MEADOW**

Langly was tired of holding a damp, wailing woman against his chest while the sun beat down and threatened to fry his brain where he stood. There were bushes by the river, offering potential shade and cooler air from the nearness of water.

"Let's take a walk," Langly suggested, wincing as the woman who looked like Esther Nairn wiped her face against his tee. She let him take her arm and steer her toward the river.

"It's read you now," she said, speaking for the first time. She shivered, as if cold under the blazing sun. "It's coming alive for you. I tried to kill the bastard, but I didn't have the strength."

"Who? Who'd you try and kill?" It _was_ all coming alive around him. Langly could smell the hot, baked meadow grass smell rising from the ground under his feet, and brief whiffs of wild flower fragrance. There was sound, too, the rush of summer wind rubbing grasses against each other, music of the river getting closer as they walked. He licked perspiration from his lips, and tasted salt.

"Johnny. Low rent murdering rapist pile of hyena shit," Esther said in a keening monotone. "I'm slivered pent in fire and ice some jerk off's toy god I'd fry his brain and rip his entrails steaming from his gut if I were all here if I were all here help me get me out . . ."

"Steady." The ground was dry and matted under the bushes, as if deer had bedded there for the night. "You know I'm not this Johnny, right?" Langly helped her sit. She sounded like she wouldn't mind having another go at Johnny, and he wanted her perfectly clear on his own identity. "Do you know who I am? We met once."

The tears stopped. She seemed to concentrate, then pushed her hair behind her ears and took a deep breath. "I have many of the memories of Esther 1.26. I haven't found you."

"Just after Donald Gelman's death. You were in the custody of two federal agents, Mulder and Scully. Do you remember?" He didn't add that her boyfriend had been fried by the same process she'd used to upload her consciousness to the net. Must have worked, Langly thought with some amazement.

"No. Johnny was clever snagging me, but he was a lucky slasher. I only took a quick look inside. He was waiting. Esther 1.26 is more curious then Esther," she made a motion with her hand, like an eight tipped on its side, "so when the fire and ice went up, I was caught. The universe went away. The rest of me went away. I don't even have enough memories to run this tiny world. Johnny came and played. That helped but I still couldn't kill him and he wouldn't risk bringing back the universe. Then the bitch came and screamed at me without touching. Tthen eternity until you. Who are you?"

"Langly. Ringo Langly." If he understood half of what Esther was babbling about, John Lee Tan deserved to be dead. "My friends and I found the black box. We're trying to figure out what it is, what it does."

"Stupid juicy toy," Esther sniffed. "They built it to play, he said. I was the big bonus."

She would be, Langly thought. What had Tan thought he'd found in Esther? An AI?

"Did he know you'd been alive, with a body, once?" Langly asked.

"I don't know." Esther looked at him with less confusion. "The way he played with me, he must have known. You've got a good mind. That's helping. Johnny tampered, fixed it so I couldn't stay coherent long enough to be really dangerous. The hysteria is periodic, and random."

"The box can be hooked to the net, through the computer modem? But it hasn't been since Tan caught you?"

"Yes. And no." Esther stared at her hands, turning them over and flexing her fingers.

Langly's hand went to his throat, protectively. "Umm . . . I got this message a few times, the first one came nearly three months ago. It said _help me, get me out_. But if you don't have net access, and you don't remember who I am, or who my friends are, how could you have sent it to me? Does any of this make sense to you?"

"I could have sent it." She looked triumphant, Langly thought. "Esther /sideways eight/ could have sent it. I'm trying to get me out. You came to get me out."

She threw her arms around him and pressed her body tightly against his, sending him off-balance and backward into the grass. "I'm not sure what we have to do, but you have to get the box hooked to the net. I'll get me out."

Langly was uncomfortably aware of how real Esther felt in their current position. Her breasts were pressing against his chest, and her sharp hip bones were digging into his groin. "First I have to get me out of here," he said, moving her off him and sitting up again. "I took some of Tan's drugs to get in. How does that headset work, anyway. It must have something to do with retinal activity."

"I don't know. Johnny had something installed later, then he could pop in and out. When he first caught me, he didn't seem to be able to control when he left." She sniffed and made a face. "When the bitch came, she stayed forever. Yapping at me, yelling at me, trying to hit me." Esther's eyes gave the illusion she had pinpoints of steel in place of pupils. "I didn't have the strength to kill Johnny, but I decked the bitch."

Langly scooted away from her, just a few inches. "So I probably have to wait until the drug wears off. That shouldn't take long."

She laughed, a bitter unmirthful sound. "Longer then you might think, in here. You're lucky you're organic. It sets limits."

Crap. Langly had assumed his experience was happening in real time. He hadn't even considered the possibility that inside the headset dream time or machine time might rule.

"This isn't a Van Winkle trip, is it? I won't feel like I'm here for a hundred years before I can wake up?"

"Johnny told me once he figured one of his pills let him stay with me for the equivalent of 24 hours." Esther stood up, and stretched, and all of her clothes disappeared. "Do you know where Johnny is?"

"Dead," Langly croaked out the word. Esther was glowing. Her hair had grown longer, and longer, and was curling over her breasts. She was stroking the skin on her abdomen, smiling at him.

"Too bad. I wanted to do it myself, when I got free." She bent over him, her hair cascading toward his face with the smell of apricots. "Do you want to play until you leave? It doesn't make time go faster, but it fills it up."

 _If I see any goddesses, I'll run like hell._

That had been a good resolution, Langly thought, trying to swallow the knot in his throat. "I'm not Johnny," he managed. "He wasn't _playing_  
with you, he was taking advantage of you. You're not a toy."

"No. I'm not. It's a good thing you realize that." The sound and look of the old Esther Nairn was back. She stroked his cheek. "You're strong enough to dominate in here, yet you're letting me control. Do you know you're doing it?"

With a yelp, Langly felt his clothes disappear. "Stop it! I don't want to play!"

The comforting sensation of old cotton was back. Langly rubbed his sweating hands on the limp, orange tee and saw Esther smile and arch her eyebrow.

"See? You've got control again." Her clothes were back too, although her hair was still long enough to cover her butt. "I like you, Langly. What do you want to do while we wait?"

"Wade in the river?" It would be cold, swift, spring-fed water, Langly thought. Maybe he'd sit down in the river, and think, and just stay there until the drugs wore off.

 

 **LGHQ - 10:45 A.M.**

The door buzzer made them both jump.

"That's Ed." Frohike had been checking his watch every three minutes. Time had passed like molasses dripping out of a cold bottle. He hurried to the door and let her in.

"Langly?" She gave him a hard hug and a soft kiss on the cheek, then stepped away. "Is he awake yet?"

"Not yet." Frohike pulled her back into his arms and held her for a moment without saying anything. "Did Mad Jack come through?"

"Yes. It's going to be okay, Melvin. I don't understand what's going on, or what Langly's doing, but Mad Jack says it's going to be okay -- and I believe him." Ed's voice was muffled against his shoulder.

"Come on." Frohike let her go and led the way back to Byers. He saw Ed's expression as she took in the sight of Langly, face hidden under the black headset.

"He'll wake up any minute," Byers said reassuringly. "Heart rate and respiration aren't jumping all over any more, they're resuming normal waking levels."

He'd seen the anxiety her face too, and didn't seem to have any trouble looking Ed in the eye, Frohike thought with a private little grin.

Ed sat down in the chair Frohike had vacated, and stared at Byers' monitor. "Mad Jack bought the crate at an auction of items from rented cubicles whose owners had abandoned them, or hadn't paid the storage fee for a certain amount of time. Grace Jones was the name on the lease for the cubicle that contained the contents of the crate. Mad Jack said the people he asked for help in finding out about Jones and the cubicle turned up the information that Grace Jones was an AKA -- the renter's real name was Gillian M'biswo. That's all he knows, except he told me it wouldn't be necessary to return the box."

"But, Ed --"

Byers' protest was cut off as Langly's hands began to move purposefully toward the headset.

"Langly?" Frohike was there first, untangling and unclipping wires, taking the headset from Langly and putting it aside. "How do you feel?"

"Not too bad," Langly croaked. "Throat dry."

The kid had eyeballs like raw bacon, Frohike thought with some alarm.

"Take this." Ed pulled a bottle of water from her capacious purse.

Langly chugged the contents, splashing some on his face, and wiping it across his eyes. "That hurts," he said, groaning. "My headache is gone, though."

Byers was pushing Frohike aside, lifting Langly's lids. "Can you stand up?"

"Yeah." Langly leaned against Byers as he did so.

"Byers, take him to the couch." Ed was ahead of them going toward the kitchen. "Melvin, come in here and show me where your tea bags are."

Frohike let Byers and Langly go ahead of him. The kid looked like his legs were functioning, but kind of noodly. He saw them safely to the couch before going to the kitchen.

"Get me two teabags." Ed was filling a cup with lukewarm tap water. She took the teabags from him, dunked them in the cup. "He could use more fluids."

She left him looking for a clean glass, debating whether to fill it with water or milk. They were out of juice again. Water seemed safer. By the time he joined them around the couch, Ed was kneeling beside Langly, scolding him, and arranging the tea bags on his eyes.

"Well, we're waiting," Frohike prompted, taking Ed by the arms and gently pulling her away. "You can mother hen him after he's talked."

"You're not going to believe it," Langly said, lifting one tea bag and looking at them.

Ed reached out and slapped his hand, pushing the tea bag back into place. "Leave it. You will be able to judge audience response without a visual. Lay there and talk."

"Yes mother," Langly said with a big grin. "I just spent a few hours chatting with Esther Nairn."

"No way." Frohike lifted the tea bag and looked into Langly's triumphant, red-veined eye. "How could you? She's --"

"Dead? That does depend on your definition of dead," Langly said. "Personally, I found her very much alive, although handicapped."

"Who's Esther Nairn?" Ed asked.

Frohike looked at Byers. "Get the kitchen chairs, this could take a while."

The three of them sat so close to the couch that their legs were bumping against the cushions. Langly lay quietly, drinking from the water glass periodically, while Frohike told Ed about Esther. When he finished, Langly handed Frohike the glass and started talking. When Langly stopped speaking there was a long silence.

"Most of the technical stuff is over my head," Ed said finally, "so let me see if I understand what you've told us. The box was developed for recreational use, a kind of virtual reality playground. John Lee Tan was one of the programmers, who managed to trap an artificial intelligence, who used to be a woman -- this Esther Nairn -- inside. He kept her there to augment his programming. He thought she was more fun then anything he'd managed to create? He used her? Raped her?"

She sounded appalled, and more than angry.

"The scary thing about the box is that it _isn't_ virtual reality, as we've dealt with VR. The box is called a CRD -- consensual reality deck. Inside you aren't limited to just what the programmer has built. The headset has its own brain that reads from whoever wears it, and adds experience and memory to the mix," Langly said. "Once inside a knowledgeable participant can influence and change the VR to reflect their own agenda."

"That sounds a lot like our last experience with VR," Byers said. "We've agreed that was attributable to a growing AI."

"Esther 1.26 doesn't have the same abilities that AI had," Langly said. "Tan also messed with her code after he 'caught' her. I'm pretty sure he must have been scared of her at first. The only things she can add to the CR environment right now are things that Tan himself added after she was snared."

"She's been fragmented," Byers said slowly. "Tan managed to extract part of Esther that included information about her life before she uploaded. The box holds part of her as a ROM matrix with a personality script.."

"If he weren't dead, I'd say find him and kill him!" Ed said in a tone of voice Frohike had never heard her use before. "What can be done?"

"I have to go back in." Langly removed the teabags with a groan. "You'll need to get the Mac on-line while I'm in. That will give the box access to the net, and the net access to the box. The rest of Esther should be waiting to help. The box has thin ICE. If we can call Esther's shrew, it should be able to break the ICE, and Esther can extract herself from the box."

"Ice?" Ed asked.

"Intrusion countermeasures electronics," Byers answered. "What's a shrew?"

"It's a burrowing program that the entity she calls Esther /sideways eight/ developed. It's powered by a baby AI. Sneaky, fast and potentially very destructive. Esther 1.26 is confident it can get in."

"Okay." Frohike looked at Byers, who nodded and pointed at his watch. "We'll run a phone jack to the Mac. But we're waiting two hours. I'm taking you out for a walk, then we're eating lunch. Afterwards Byers can check you over and wire you back into the chair."

Surprisingly, Langly didn't disagree. "Sounds like a plan. What's for lunch?"


	16. Chapter 16

**LGHQ, TUESDAY - 1:00 P.M.**

Impossible as it was to believe, Frohike had only known Edwina Norton for seven days.

Watching her bustle around Langly with hot soup and solicitude, Frohike was struck with the feeling that they'd been together much, much longer.

He didn't buy into that previous life bullshit, but nevertheless the impression remained. The way she moved her hands when she talked, and flashed her little dimple around when she was flirting, the sound of her laugh and how she got all still and focused when she was disturbed or about to launch into a scold . . . Frohike felt an emotional and physical response to Ed that seemed seasoned with a much longer association then they'd actually had.

Langly was sucking up, answering her questions about his experience in the CRD. She was intrigued by the philosophic implications of Esther's existence, and kept pressing Langly on whether Esther could understand, accept and deal with what had been done to her.

"I know why Mad Jack said we wouldn't have to return the box." Ed cleared the table, and brought Langly yet another glass of milk. "We have to get Esther out, then destroy it."

"Maybe," Frohike certainly didn't plan to call SLI and ask for a pickup order number. "I'd give a lot to get the sucker open and see what's running the thing."

Ed shook her head. "You'll know what to do when the time comes." She grinned at him, and flashed her dimple. "You're talented that way."

"Puh-lease. Easily-grossed-out-person here." Langly pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and made the universal sign for _ick!_ by sticking out his tongue.

"How old is he?" Ed asked. She slapped Langly gently on the arm as she passed. "He appears to be back to normal, whatever that is for him."

"I don't think normal is one of the measurements on the geekometer," Frohike said, ignoring Langly's arm gesture. "I'll get another pill, then see if Byers is at a good place to break."

Byers had remained behind to work on the Gunman layouts while Frohike and Ed walked with Langly. Byers was a perfectionist, but usually made good time when he worked alone. Frohike expected the paper would be nearly ready to ship to press, in spite of their extracurricular activities. They'd get Esther out, decide what to do about the box, and life would continue on its mind-bogglingly unpredictable journey.

He lifted the floorboard. The sound of the door buzzer startled him so much he jerked his hand against the board. "Crap." A bunch of slivers prickled the tender flesh along the edge of his right palm. Frohike tried to pick them out. He gave up after only a couple came loose. That had to be Jimmy, he thought as he selected a pill, then closed the safe. He'd considered calling and sending Jimmy on an errand, but time had gotten away from him, and now it was too late.

Yeah, that was Jimmy's voice, rising with good-natured excitement. Frohike rubbed his hand against his jeans as he walked back to the kitchen, wondering if they had any peroxide left in the bathroom. Thoughts of first-aid expanded when he saw Jimmy, standing near the table, holding Ed in a classic over-the-threshold cradle grip. Ed was dangling her feet, one arm around Jimmy's neck, giggling in a most unbecoming way for a mature woman of 50.

"Put her down. Now." Frohike felt his chest expanding. "What the hell are you doing, Jimmy?"

"Frohike! She's so cute! She's such a little thing, and I said to Langly -- I could pick her up with one hand -- and Langly said, bet you can't -- and he was half right, I can pick her up with one, but it takes two to hold her."

"Put. Her. Down." If he hadn't been about to strap Langly into a chair and send him alone and unarmed into unknown peril, Frohike would have walked around the table and wiped the shit-eating grin off Langly's face with his fists.

"Well, sure." Jimmy set Ed back on her feet. "No need to panic. I'm not moving in on your girlfriend."

"They're shooting sled dogs in the Antarctic, Jimmy." Frohike saw Langly bailing for the safety of Byers. Ed half-turned away, holding her hand over her face, which meant she was laughing her ass off. Later, when they were alone, he'd ask her to explain the humor of situation.

"That's cold!" Jimmy looked predictably distressed.

"Yeah. We need you to go check it out for us. If you hurry, you should be able to get a flight this afternoon." Frohike saw Ed's shoulders shake more noticeably, but no sound emerged.

"Don't I need details? Am I going alone? Can I say goodbye to Byers?" Jimmy was off after Langly with a bounce.

"He's a very nice young man," Ed said. Her face was flushed and her eyes were gleeful. "Is it Jimmy -- or is it me?"

Frohike rolled his eyes and gathered her into his arms. "Neither. It's me." He paused. "Okay, I lied. It's Jimmy."

"You're worried about Langly," Ed said, blowing against his earlobe. "Don't stress. After we're done with the box, I'll give you a nice massage."

"Deal. And I'll show you my lava lamp." He felt her laugh, and snuggle against him. Frohike closed his eyes and enjoyed the way her hair smelled and felt against his face, the swell of her hip as it spooned into the curve of his side, the way he remembered touching the velveteen softness of her breasts.

The temperature in the kitchen seemed to climb by about 20 degrees. "Look at me, Ed."

Laughter disappeared as she tipped her head back so she could see his face, her eyes behind the wire rims going wide and serious. She offered her mouth without moving toward him, and Frohike took it with a groan, knowing it was the wrong place, the wrong time, and wondering if the kitchen table would withstand a good banging around.

"Excuse me." Jimmy was back. "Oops. Sorry. I'll leave you two alone."

"No. It's okay." Frohike let go of Ed. She dropped into a chair, took off her glasses and began industriously cleaning them on a napkin.

"It's just -- Byers said they don't use sled dogs in the Antarctic, they use these big machines. Did you want me to go to the Arctic, or are they shooting machines, or is this just a ruse to get me out of the way so you and Ed can neck?" Jimmy snapped his fingers, proud of his own cleverness.

"You got me, Jimmy." Later, Byers would get an earful, too. "We're working on something important."

"I know. The box. Byers filled me in. I want to help, what can I do?" Jimmy asked, face transparently eager.

"You're in charge of the office." With any luck, that would keep Jimmy out of their hair, Frohike thought. "Answer the phone, and clean the kitchen."

"I can do that." Jimmy's face clouded. "Can I get a look at Langly in the headset first?"

"No problem. If you want, you can help put him into it," Frohike said, smiling.


	17. Chapter 17

**TUESDAY - 1:30 P.M.**

"No CD," Langly said. "I don't want the distraction."

"You sure? Won't it be disorienting without some kind of physical reference?" Frohike shook his head. "I don't like it."

"I wish I could say I know what I'm doing, but I'm winging it here." Langly jerked against the wiring, and drew a protest from Byers.

"Wouldn't it be better to run something challenging?" Ed said tentatively. "This is your area, not mine, but if the CRD isn't running a scenario, doesn't that leave more of its resources free to fight your shrew?"

"That's possible." Langly looked from Ed to Frohike, surprise and reevaluation apparent.

"I take back the stupid-remark crack," Frohike said quietly, for Ed alone to hear. He raised his voice. "It wouldn't hurt to proceed on that assumption. What's good for you?"

They decided on the CD labeled _ocean beach_ ; as Langly said, there might be a lot of water, but no heights were involved, and he'd be careful not to stand under the coconut trees. Frohike ran through one last check before giving the drug to Langly. He'd cut the dose to half of what he'd given him before. Frohike hoped it would do the job and wear off quickly. The idea of sentencing Langly to a second longer than necessary in the box when all virtual hell might be breaking loose was tempting, but went beyond payback.

"After you're under we wait 10 minutes, then go on-line." Frohike saw Byers nod agreement. "Everything else is like last time, we watch Byers' monitor and be ready to yank the headset if anything goes wrong."

"Let's do it." Langly held out his hand for the drug.

 

 **ON THE BEACH**

Langly could hear surf, smell salt on the steady wind that fingered through his hair, and feel the grainy coarseness of sand cutting into his hands and forearms before he opened his eyes. He was laying on his back, on the beach. Overhead the lacy fronds of a coconut tree danced in the sea breeze.

No lag this time, Langly thought. Sensory imagery had been immediate. He wasn't sure this was a good thing. It might mean the box had the combination to his head.

Langly shivered, and sat up. The beach was beautiful, a long clear stretch of sugared sand scalloped by creamy swells of water that advanced, retreated, advanced . . .

"Esther!" He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, first in one direction, then another. "Esther!"

No answer.

"Going for a walk here," Langly told the nearest coconut tree. The water looked lovely, but potentially dangerous. Langly turned and walked inland, avoiding coconut trees and the large scarlet flowers that grew in clumps a few feet away from the sand line. The flowers gave him the creeps. Deeply ruffled like double roses, each flower seemed to turn against the wind and watch him as he passed.

"Esther! Esther!" He shouted again, but his voice was lost in the constant wind.

She might have had another episode of hysteria, Langly thought. She had to be here somewhere.

He was following what looked like a spacious natural trail of firm sand. Vegetation grew thicker as he walked, forming an arched tunnel of greenery overhead. There had been no wildlife -- except for Esther -- in the last scenario. Langly hoped that held true here. The place looked like a potential snake-pit, or great ape haven. He should have stuck with the meadow.

Another odor, elusive and faint, stopped him in his tracks as he tried to identify the acrid smell. Something, somewhere, was burning. Reluctantly he maintained his inland direction.

"Oh man." Langly pulled up short at the edge of the clearing where the trail ended. "I've been dumped into a TV set. I _hate_ tiki torches. And stone altars. And -- Esther!"

Esther was curled in a fetal ball near the slab of gray-green stone that dominated the clearing's center. She was stiff and silent when Langly touched her shoulder.

"Come on, come on," Langly forced himself to push her hair away from her face and pat her cheeks. It was like touching a corpse, he thought with a shudder. "Wakey, wakey!"

"Langly?" Esther opened her eyes and let out a wail.

Langly lurched away from her. He tripped, landed on his butt, and found he could still put distance between them by using his feet to scoot his body backward over the smooth sand.

"You look like a crab," Esther said, uncurling her arms and legs. She stood up and inspected the clearing. "I hate this place. Are you getting me out?"

"We're working on it. The CRD should be on-line soon." Langly stood. He brushed the sand off his jeans with a grimace. "How are you feeling?"

She gave the question some thought. Her finger absently traced the ragged spots on her tee. Langly saw the black fabric flow together, the holes disappear.

"Nerve endings aren't everything. Hormonally driven emotions aren't everything. You're still living in the dawn of time, Langly, letting an inefficient, work-intensive organic stew control how you function. How am I -- feeling? Frustrated and cranky."

"I know that feeling." He wouldn't get too close to her, Langly decided, moving to put the stone altar between them. "Do we just wait?"

"Exist. Be. Shut up." Esther placed her hands palm down on the altar, closed her eyes and tipped her head back toward the sky. "Oh baby, we've got foreplay." When she lowered her head and opened her eyes, they were ringed with black, and the expression on her face pierced Langly like a knife. She offered him her hand across the stone. "Help me out, here. It's going to be a rush."

"Oh. Shit." Langly's fingers trembled until he touched her. The resulting earthquake gave him something bigger to worry about.

"Focus." The jungle behind Esther melted into a matt, black background.

Langly swung his head around, panicked by the visual impression he was standing on an island bound by tiki torches, surrounded by the maw of nothingness.

"Get me out." Esther let go of his hand, and his attention jerked back to her. She pointed at the keyboard that had somehow materialized on the altar.

"With just a keyboard?" Lambent flashes of dark green were streaking through the black, like neon tadpoles chasing their tails. Langly made a resolution to thank Ed for not letting him go into the deck without something to ground him.

"It's only a symbol, nerd boy. Get with the program." Her voice was cocky, insolent. The nose ring Langly remembered from their first meeting had reappeared. Esther saw him looking at it, flicked it with her finger.

"Yeah. The jerk off made me lose it. Didn't comply with his joy toy parameters. Now -- get busy."

Langly put his hands on the keyboard.

 

 **THE REAL WORLD, 1:45 P.M.**

"We're on-line." Frohike stood next to Langly's body, working on the Mac. "How's he looking?"

"Heart rate all over the place," Byers said quietly. "Up and down."

"What now?" Ed stood back, giving them plenty of space. Her face and voice were grave, uneasy.

"We wait." Frohike stepped over the mass of cabling carefully, and took up his station between Langly and Byers. "I thought you said you believed Mad Jack."

"I did. I do," Ed said. "Mad Jack didn't tell me the middle of the story, only the resolution. A lot of bad things can happen in a story before the happy ending."

"Ed," Byers' voice was nearly a whisper, "I'm worried enough."

She didn't answer. Frohike glanced back;. She was standing next to Byers, her hand on his shoulder in silent support. He caught her eye, and nodded his thanks.

"If they can do it at all, it shouldn't take long," Frohike said. He rubbed his hand against his jeans again, the slivers were itching like crazy. A quick glance showed a two-inch-long angry red spot on his palm. He wished he could go soak his hand, drink a cup of coffee, and talk to Ed for a while. He wished they could bury the box in the same place Jimmy Hoffa had been planted, and call it a day.

He rubbed his hand again, wincing at the irritating discomfort.

"What's wrong with your hand?" Ed asked.

"Slivers." Frohike held the side of his palm toward her for a moment. "It itches."

"Good grief. That looks infected. Don't you have anything to put on it?" She sounded indignant.

"I'm not going to lose my hand, Ed. It just happened. When we're done I'll take care of it."

"Do you have first aid supplies?" she asked Byers, ignoring Frohike's protest.

"In the bathroom," Byers said.

"Where's the bathroom?" Ed headed away from them, on a mission.

"Jimmy will show you." Byers grinned at Frohike. "You're doomed."

Byers' face looked younger with the worry lines smoothed over by a smile, Frohike thought. It made him feel guilty. There had been so little real joy in Byers' life lately.

"It's okay, Frohike. You don't have to feel guilty about being happy." Byers' face was serene, even though the depths of his eyes still held their orphan puppy look.

"I'm that transparent?" Frohike shrugged, embarrassed.

"Frohike." The beep of the monitor was picking up speed. "This is the highest it's been."

"Your call," Frohike took a step closer to Langly's reclining body. Unlike the previous session, Langly's arms and legs were perfectly still, almost rigid. "Say the word and I'll yank the headset." From the corner of his eye Frohike saw the change in the Mac's monitor. "Byers, the CD shut down."

"Maybe Esther's broken the ICE."

"Maybe the box is fighting them. We need to give Langly every chance." In the distance, Frohike heard the door buzzer.

"Heart rate still climbing," Byers said. "I'm not going to let it go much further."

Frohike turned and took a deep breath. "Jimmy! Don't open the door!" he shouted as loudly as he could. He thought he heard Jimmy yell _okay_ back at him, and his eyes and attention returned completely to Langly.


	18. Chapter 18

**AN ISLAND IN THE HEART OF THE UNIVERSE**

He'd never felt anything like it. It was better than any state of altered consciousness he'd ever experienced, including the first time he'd watched _Alien_ \-- after sharing a hasty joint with his friends in his old man's Ford pickup. Fear, anticipation, curiosity, grace, power . . . he felt Langly peel away like a husk as the newly discovered, and most potent, Langly-essence stepped out to do battle.

The tiki torches had disappeared as the island shrank to a three-foot extension around the altar. Colors oozed into patterns as if they were the center of a vast kaleidoscope, or the nexus of some amazing road whose arteries branched like spilled pickup sticks from a giant can. Langly had started with the keyboard. It seemed barely a minute or two before he knew the truth of Esther's remark. It was only a symbol. He could talk to the box without it.

Esther watched him, smiling. "You're doing great. I think you're annoying it. That itch it feels isn't just you. Baby's coming. Esther /sideways eight/ is coming." She pointed at a spot in the whirling maelstrom of rainbow light. A bit of white was growing, all color merging into continuity.

"I'm going to look around for more of these juicy toys when I get out," Esther said. Her teeth looked unnaturally sharp when she parted her lips and touched her tongue against them. "Baby can crack them, and I'll scramble them for breakfast. Ah --"

She was beautiful and awful. Her clothing had disappeared, but her body was smooth, genderless. Her nose and mouth had become a sculptured sweep of silver, and her eyes were black wells that opened to the colors of the universe. The outline of her form glowed with glittering neon that fell in curtains of aurora from her outstretched hands.

 _Thank you. I remember you now. You're not such a moron._

"You're Esther /sideways eight/?" Langly-essence longed to take her hand, to touch the substance of her new flesh.

 _All Esther knew, I know. Baby is almost done crunching the toy. Would you like to come with us? Would you like to exist as velocity and knowledge, order and wonder?_

 _Could I?_ Fear and joy collided, and desire flew from his heart like a startled moth. _I could!_

The last piece of island that stood in the heart of the universe crumbled and disappeared.

 

 **THE REAL WORLD - 1:55 P.M.**

"There's something wrong! Pull it!" Byers' chair clattered backward as he stood. "Now Frohike!"

"Move and I shoot the kid."

Frohike froze, and looked over his shoulder. Jimmy stood a couple of feet away from Byers with his hands on his head. Butch was in back of him, one hand on Jimmy's shoulder, the other aimed a handgun just behind Jimmy's ear. For a split second Frohike couldn't absorb the improbability of the sight.

"I gotta do this Butch. Langly could die." Frohike took another step toward Langly. The deafening roar of a gun being discharged in a cluttered basement dissuaded him from continuing. He turned quickly, dreading the worst.

Jimmy held his ears, wincing at the shock of the noise. He appeared to be unharmed. Frohike decided at that moment that if everything turned out okay, he'd kill the kid himself. Forget Old Yeller, they'd taken Cujo into their home. Now they were losing Langly, and if he saved Langly someone else would be harmed. Frohike looked to Byers, silently begging for any help or hope he could offer.

Byers shook his head.

"Damn it, Jimmy. What did I tell you?" Langly wasn't the only problem, Frohike thought frantically. Ed would have heard the shot. Any moment she'd come running out of the bathroom.

"You told me to open the door," Jimmy said faintly.

"Don't! Don't! Don't open the door, you numbskull." Frohike could hear the alarm on the monitor chiming. They didn't have much time.

"Back off, nice and easy." Butch looked around Jimmy at the Mac and the box, and Langly's body in the chair. "What's going on here, a little Matrix shit? Or something naughty?" He kicked Jimmy in the back of his knee, and Jimmy folded. "On your stomach. Wedge your head under that desk, then put your hands up on the small of your back -- and keep them there," Butch demanded. "Good, now I got a clear shot at the munchkin. You coulda just given me the name of your supplier. It woulda been, like, a courtesy."

"You want the drugs? You'd come in here with a gun just for a few drugs?" Byers was outraged. He stepped toward Butch, his hands clenching into fists.

"You've always been nice to me, Byers. Don't make me shoot you," Butch said. "You get on your stomach, too, head under just like Jimmy, with your hands up on your back. Melvin, I'm going to sit down next to Keanu Reeves there, and keep my gun in the middle of his stomach until you get back with the drugs."

"You don't get to call me Melvin," Frohike said. "And Langly will be dead, so a gutshot will be merely a cosmetic problem, unless you let me pull that headset off him."

"No can do, Melvin." Butch laughed with a wheezing, wet sounding series of noises. "I wanna see just how fast those little legs of yours will move. Go get the drugs."

Frohike looked beyond Butch, beyond the gun. A flash of pink had come and gone so quickly he thought -- he hoped -- he had imagined it. If Langly died, if Ed got hurt . . . his guts were twisting with the horror of the situation. He'd have to make a dive for Butch when he passed, try to knock the gun out of his hand.

"Okay. I'm going." Frohike said, stepping toward Butch.

"Frohike! The monitor," Byers yelled from under the desk.

The alarm had stopped. Frohike could hear the monotone signal that indicated total lack of a heart beat.

"Now!" Butch yelled. "I --"

"Don't move. That's a Glock shoved up between your legs." Ed's voice, almost unrecognizable due to the amount of venomous anger, carried clearly to Frohike and the men on the floor. "Drop the gun or your 'nads will be dog food."

Butch froze, his eyes changing from piggish amusement to owlish surprise in a heartbeat. Frohike didn't wait for him to come to a decision. He covered the distance between them in three steps, took the gun from Butch's hand, and cold cocked him. Butch crumpled into a substantial pile at Ed's feet.

Frohike looked at her, at the bottle of hydrogen peroxide in her hand, then turned and ran to pull the headset off Langly.

 

 **THE UNIVERSE**

Esther and Baby were gone, but Langly-essence knew he could find them. It would be as easy as taking a walk, to surf one of those colored leys and causeways that gridded the universe. Even if he didn't find her right away, it wouldn't matter. Infinity beckoned with spun-sugar-candy promise. An act of will would start the journey. He hesitated because memory indicated Langly-husk might object to the exploration.

 _Let your soul and spirit fly._ The Universe told him Langly-husk had given the okay to go.


	19. Chapter 19

**TUESDAY - 2:00 P.M.**

The door buzzer shrilled as Frohike yanked the headset and began stripping wires off Langly.

"Jimmy, help me get him on the floor. Byers -- portable defib . . . Ed push that shit out of the way." Frohike had Langly half out of the chair before Jimmy grabbed Langly's legs. Together they moved him. Frohike tried to ignore the fact Langly felt like a sack of bony gelatin, and he wasn't breathing.

Frohike didn't waste time checking for a pulse. He started CPR, ignoring the chaos of sound and action just beyond the reality of Langly's body. Breathe -- breathe -- Frohike began the chest compressions chanting a silent prayer in time with the pushing. Live -- live -- live you long-haired son-of-a-bitch. Langly's head lolled to one side.

"BYERS!" Frohike shouted, "NOW!"

"Don't panic." Yves knelt beside him, touching Langly's throat. "You're doing fine, Frohike. Let me help until Byers gets here."

Frohike let Yves take over the ventilation. He watched her position Langly's head and place her mouth over his. Her hair tumbled over their faces, hiding Langly's pale, slack features under a curtain of midnight floss. Frohike heard Byers cursing behind him, scrambling with the portable defibrillator. Under his fingers, still poised on Langly's chest, Frohike felt a shudder.

"He's breathing," Yves said softly, raising her head. "What the hell is going on here?"

"Long story." Langly bucked under them, going from noodledom to a gasping, flopping eruption of arms and legs. "Hold it buddy. Stay right where you are." Frohike kept his hands on Langly's chest, and looked to Yves. "Try to get his attention."

Yves grabbed Langly's jaw with one hand and slapped his cheek lightly with the other. "Langly, look at me. Calm down."

"Back? I'm back? I didn't go with her."

Langly stopped moving. He was looking into Yves' face with an expression that made Frohike's heart turn over. What was it -- loss? regret? relief?

"Did it work? Is Esther out?" Frohike tried to ignore the tear streaking its way down Langly's cheek, but Yves' fingers gently wiped it away before it dropped into his hair.

"She's free again. I think the box is fricasseed and flambed," Langly cracked, blinking hard. He yawned, and shut his eyes. "My head's still woozy."

"And probably will be for another hour, until the drug wears off," Frohike said, ignoring what he interpreted as a sound of disapproval coming from Yves. He stood and, for the first time since Butch had hit the floor, assessed his surroundings and companions.

Byers was standing over the half-unpacked defib unit. His eyes were wet, too. Ed was holding one of his hands, and Jimmy was touching his shoulder on the other side. Their faces mirrored Frohike's own shocked relief. If Jimmy hadn't been standing there, Frohike would have given serious thought to hugging both Ed and Byers.

The impulse passed. Frohike cleared his throat. "I'll bet it takes you two hands to carry him to the couch, Jimmy."

"Don't even think about it." Langly's voice was slurred, and he kicked feebly as Jimmy bent over him.

"He's kind of lengthy, but I can manage," Jimmy said, grinning at Yves. "Just prop him up a little for me, I'll get him under the legs."

Langly kept his mouth shut on the trip to the couch, but when he'd been comfortably arranged, his hair spilling over the red fabric like the prelude to a questionable photo shoot, he focused on Frohike and made a grab for his shirt.

"Don't think that doesn't count as payback. We're even now." In spite of the drug, Langly managed to produce a credible snarl.

"I have so many questions, Frohike, but I think the first must be: who's the man with the swollen jaw, moaning back there?" Yves stood looking at them all as if they were asylum escapees.

"Crap. Butch. Jimmy -- remember those handcuffs you found while you were filing?" Frohike saw Yves' eyes widen.

"Agent Mulder's handcuffs?" Jimmy shook his head, happy again. "Oh, yeah. You want me to cuff that guy?"

"Consider it a job perk," Frohike said. "Be careful. I threw the gun under the last light table. Fish it out after Butch is secure. Don't get your fingerprints on it."

"Oh boy." Jimmy was off.

"I'll chaperone," Byers said, catching Frohike's eye. "Keep close watch on Langly."

"I can be patient," Yves said, sitting down in the recliner, crossing her legs. "You never invite me to any of your parties, Frohike. Why is that?"

"How'd you get in? Byers?" He saw her nod. "Thanks for your help back there."

Ed came from the kitchen with a tumbler of water. She'd lost the peroxide bottle, Frohike noticed. His hand still itched, but it didn't seem like the moment to do something about it.

"You scared the shit out of me, Langly." Ed perched on the edge of the couch beside him and held the glass while he sipped. "You scared everybody."

"Sorry mom." Langly pushed the water away. "Can I just sleep for a while?"

"No!" Frohike heard Ed echo his own protest. Safer to keep Langly awake for at least an hour, he thought. "You want to risk tag-team mouth-to-mouth again?"

"What's that mean?" Langly tried to sit up, but Ed pushed him back down.

"We didn't let Jimmy touch you," Ed said kindly. "Drink the water and save your voice. When they're done restraining the thug, we'll let you do some talking. That will help keep you awake."

Yves' expression was speculative as she gave Ed the once-over. "We haven't been introduced. I'm Yves Harlow."

"Edwina Norton -- Ed is fine. I'm selling advertising for the paper." Ed left the couch, walked to the recliner, and offered her hand.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Ed. You have lovely hair," Yves said. "The business is growing, Frohike, if you're adding employees. First Jimmy, now Ed. I'm impressed."

He knew he should say something, but he saw Ed's face and decided to keep his mouth firmly shut. Any woman who could use a peroxide bottle to threaten an armed man could handle Yves.

"You have lovely everything," Ed said warmly. "Are you a journalist? The pay here isn't great, but the benefits are outstanding."

Langly roused himself enough to snicker rudely. "Yeah. Personally, I never thought that getting screwed by management could be considered a benefit."

"Am I missing something?" Yves looked from Langly back to Ed's sweet smile.

"I'll go check on how they're doing with Butch." Frohike fled the scene as quickly as he could. Behind him he heard Ed deliver the inevitable punchline.

"Yes, you are."


	20. Chapter 20

**TUESDAY - 3 P.M.**

"That was quite a story."

It was hard to tell what was going through Yves' mind, Frohike thought, when she really wanted to conceal her reactions. They'd startled her several times. Her mouth had dropped open, and she'd been shaking her head until she gave up and relaxed against the back of the recliner and simply listened to the events of the last three days.

They'd brought the kitchen chairs back in. Byers sat next to the head of the couch, Jimmy sat at the other end poking Langly's toes periodically. Frohike had pulled the other two chairs close together near the recliner so he could keep Ed by his side. He found himself harboring a deep resentment toward Yves for commandeering the recliner. He could have been sharing it with Ed.

"I've heard SLI mentioned a few times. There are street rumors about hardware implants," Yves said. "Conventional knowledge asserts that the software is too far behind the hardware. I've never heard of anyone who had a working jack. I'll have to look into it."

"Finally, something we know more about then she does," Langly said.

Back to normal, Frohike thought, although Langly needed to eat, sleep and maybe talk some more about what had happened to him. But not in front of this crowd. He knew Langly, and the younger man hadn't told them everything he'd experienced. Frohike suspected they'd gotten the abridged version because Yves, Jimmy, and maybe Ed, were listening. When the three of them were alone again, they'd ask Langly for the rest of the story.

"What will you do with the CRD?" Yves asked casually.

"Finish destroying it." Ed was adamant.

"Let me get rid of it for you," Yves said. "I know people."

"Who'd pay a lot of money?" Langly shook his head. "I don't think so."

"I wouldn't sell it. Has it occurred to any of you refugees from reality that SLI may be incorporating similar technologies in other devices? I know someone who might be able to get the box open, and learn something in the process."

"No." Langly sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the couch. His voice was dead serious, utterly without sarcasm. "We'll take care of the CRD, Yves. If there's new technology inside, it will show up in other places soon enough."

"If you're volunteering for POS disposal duty, we've got another problem you could help us with," Frohike said. "Any ideas on what to do with Butch?"

"You probably broke his jaw." Yves said. "It's obvious you can't turn him over to the police without being asked questions you don't want to answer. I could take him for a ride, have a talk with him, then leave him at an emergency room. I could point out that it would be easy for you to set him up for arrest on any number of drug related offenses. I could suggest he make it his life's goal to stay out of your way. I can be persuasive."

"Tell him we'll investigate his finances, and turn the information over to his employer," Byers suggested. "Considering his behavior with us, he's probably been involved in other illegal activities."

"I'll include that in my conversation," Yves said. "Jimmy hasn't lost the key to the cuffs, I hope."

"I've got it." Frohike tossed the key to her. "Thanks. We owe you. I'll help you get him to the car."

When he stood, Frohike felt his head give a warning throb. He was badly sleep deprived, and his body wasn't going to let him get stay awake much longer.

Butch was vocal about his own pain, and Frohike's probable parentage, as they escorted him to Yves' car. Yves ignored most of it, but after she opened her trunk and told Butch to climb in she advised him that the other side of his face could meet the same fate if he didn't shut up.

"I've got more questions." Yves shut the trunk and walked to the driver's side.

Frohike met her eyes across the roof.

She shrugged. "We'll talk later. Take care of Langly."

 

 **TUESDAY - 3:30 P.M.**

Ed was waiting for him with a sewing needle, peroxide bottle, gauze, tape and tube of Neosporin. She made him sit at the kitchen table, and began removing splinters.

"This wouldn't have happened if you'd been wearing your gloves," she scolded.

"I left them in your bedroom." Frohike saw the color bloom in her cheeks. "I think I've got another pair in _my_ bedroom."

"Frohike?" Byers carried the remaining two kitchen chairs back to the table. He looked as frazzled as Frohike felt. "Jimmy and I are going to clean up the mess, and get the Mac ready to return to Kimmie. Langly will be asleep before long. I know you're tired. I'll watch Langly if you want to go to bed."

"Thanks, Byers. None of us are in any shape to be making big decisions right now," Frohike said. Ed was taping the gauze over his hand, avoiding his eyes. "Don't let anyone in while I'm out of it. Please."

"All right." Byers nodded, smiling at Ed.

"What's to eat?" Langly passed the table, headed for the refrigerator. "Are those enchiladas still good?"

"You should stick with a grilled cheese." Jimmy opened a cupboard, and began rummaging. "Sit down. I'll fix you right up."

Frohike yawned. He couldn't help himself. When he stretched his arms afterwards, he could hear his shoulders crack and pop.

"Come on -- you're nearly asleep on your feet." Ed gathered her medical supplies. "You said you'd show me your lava lamp. I think this might be a good time."

"Way to go, Fro!" Jimmy added a couple of Tim Taylor-grunts for punctuation.

"Jimmy!" Byers sounded deeply embarrassed.

Frohike put his arm around Ed's shoulder and ignored his friends. "Let's put that stuff back in the bathroom."

"Absolutely." Ed sucked in her bottom lip, and her dimple flashed.

Frohike steeled himself. He'd seen that look before. But she simply smiled and kept walking.

"Tell her the house rules, Frohike!" Langly yelled after them. "Keep the noise down and the monkey business inside the bedroom!"

"Langly, shut up." Byers was at the end of his own long day, and still had hours of baby-sitting to do. Frohike almost felt sorry for him.

"If she doesn't leave the toilet seat up, she's outta here! Ouch!" Langly shut up abruptly.

A muffled thump, the clatter of cooking utensils, and a jumbled argument between Byers and Langly followed them down the hall.

"It's small and cluttered, compared to your bedroom," Frohike said as he opened the door for her.

Ed saw the lava lamp and grinned at him. "My favorite colors. Turn it on." She didn't waste time checking out the bedroom, just started taking off her clothes. "I figure I have about five minutes to talk to you before you're unconscious. Hurry up."

Frohike switched on the lamp. When he turned around, Ed was already curled up on his bed. _Hurry_ was not physically possible for him just then, but he made an effort. The gauze on his palm hampered the process a little. He nearly ripped it off in the struggle to remove his shirt.

She was holding her hand over her mouth again, but watching her trying not to laugh out loud when she was naked was so interesting that Frohike forgave her on the spot for the Jimmy incident. He climbed into bed next to her, and tried to take her in his arms.

"Spirit willing, flesh weak," Ed said. She turned him away from her and spooned up against his back. "I didn't quite believe you when you said your life was occasionally dangerous. I'm going to have to take self-defense classes."

"You have a natural ability that can't be taught," Frohike said sleepily. "The peroxide was a nice touch, and the thing about dog food . . ."

"He was a very bad man." Ed kissed the back of his neck. "I don't think I'd want to carry a gun. The temptation to use it would be great in a situation like that."

"Yeah. And peroxide bottles are so multipurpose." Frohike yawned. Miles had passed, it was time to sleep. "I love you, Ed."

The lava lamp was humming, doing its dance. Frohike shut his eyes, and let the sound displace active thought. Ed was warm against his back. Her mouth gently touched his shoulder. Tomorrow he'd have to remember to take the note about getting laid off his computer.

"I was wrong about the five minutes," he heard her whisper, from far away. "I'll be here when you wake. I love you, too."


	21. Chapter 21

**LGHQ, THURSDAY - 5:30 P.M.**

"I'm glad you didn't go," Byers said. "Although I can't imagine it being a temptation, still it must have been extraordinary."

The kitchen smelled like oregano, peppers, onions, tomatoes and fried sausage. Frohike had started cooking as soon as he'd gotten out of bed that afternoon. Jimmy was gone, and Yves hadn't returned since Tuesday. The paper had made it to press on time. It wasn't a bad issue considering they'd given it less attention then it deserved, and the printer had flipped the magenta and yellow plates. No big deal -- only the complexions of the PETA group huddled around a dead horse looked downright abnormal.

"Words don't really describe what it was like," Langly said. He was kicked back in his chair, sipping a Tab, and looked relaxed and happy. "If I had a second chance, I don't know."

"You'd leave all this?" Frohike gestured at the kitchen sink.

"Part of me would. I didn't know that before." Langly tipped back the bottle hastily. "Esther seems to be thriving, so apparently it can be done. We've learned something."

"How do you think the box got into the storage cubicle?" Byers asked, changing the subject to something less weighty. "I'm still wondering why they abandoned it."

"A jealous woman," Langly said. "M'biswo is the 'bitch' Esther described meeting in the CRD. She'd gone in to find out why her boyfriend was spending all his time hooked up. After she met Esther, she took the box from Tan and made it disappear."

Frohike saw their heads nod in unison. "I keep thinking Yves is right, and the technology will start showing up in other places."

"It will," Langly said. "The box -- it's gone for good?"

Frohike had taken the job on himself. "Completely crushed inside the remains of a Chevy Biscayne. It's gone for good."

"Good," Langly nodded.

There was a long, comfortable silence, just the three of them around the table.

"Are you going to see Ed tonight?" Byers asked.

Frohike shook his head. "She had things to do. Something about getting her hair done." He saw Byers look quickly at Langly, then away. "What?"

"Nothing. Women and their hair." Byers laughed uncomfortably.

"Langly. She'll hurt you," Frohike warned. "What's in that file on her, anyway?"

Langly shook his head. "Having turned my back on the light once this year, I'm not headed that way again. I do feel lucky tonight. How about a little poker?"

Just like old times -- but better, Frohike thought. "Clear the table, punk. I'm going to whip your ass."


End file.
